The Walls Of Sparta
by Artie Gallezi
Summary: Percy is shocked to learn Artie has disappeared again, only days after rescuing Artemis and Annabeth. Captured again? Spying on the enemy? Is he even alive anymore? No one seems to know and Percy is in for a lot when Annabeth is issued a quest. With Kronos having found a route into Camp Half Blood, they could use a king with the entire animal kingdom at his command.
1. Prologue : Not Again

After his little mishap with a couple of empousa during his orientation at Goode High School, which ended with the usual fleeing from the police of New York City, which he followed up by a long quiet taxi ride with a furious Annabeth Chase before arriving at Camp Half Blood, Percy was not in a good mood. The empousa had hinted about the camp being in flames and all of his friends imprisoned, but he had no idea what she meant or how she burst into flames.

Annabeth left him at Thalia's Pine, saying she had to see Clarisse La Rue about something they had been working on. As he made his way through camp, Percy said hi to some hie friends. In the Big House driveway, Connor and Travis Stoll from the Hermes cabin were hotwire the camp's SUV. Silena Beauregard, the head counselor for the Aphrodite cabin, waved to him while riding a pegasus. He looked for Grover, but he couldn't find him. Finally, he wandered into the sword training area. It was usually where he went whenever he was in a bad mood. Practicing always seemed to calm him down. He liked to think because swordplay was something he actually understood.

He walked into the amphitheater and his heart stopped. In the middle of the arena, with its back to him, was the biggest hellhound he'd had ever seen.

Percy had seen hellhounds before. One as big as rhino had nearly killed him when he was twelve, but this particular hellhound was a large as a military tank. It was impossible for hellhounds, or any monster as a matter of fact, to penetrate the camp's magical borders. It looked right at home, laying on its belly, chewing on the head of a combat dummy. It hadn't seen him yet, but one little sound from him, it would sense him. There was no time to go for help. Percy took out Riptide and uncapped it.

"Yahhh!" He charge, bringing down the blade on the monster's enormous backside when something large and powerful tackled him to the side midair.

Before Percy heard his sword clang loudly on the floor, he was face to face with a saber-toothed tiger. As to how an animal that even he knew was supposed extinct millions of years ago came to protecting a hellhound, Percy was stumped.

WOOF!

Percy turned to see the hellhound was on its feet, barking at the tiger.

WOOF!

In the time it took Percy to blink, the not so extinct tiger leapt off and tackled the hellhound. For a moment Percy thought they were fighting, with all the snarling and growling, but as he got up he saw different.

"Are they playing?" He asked aloud.

"And I thought I'd seen everything." cried a voice.

Percy turned to see a man who appeared roughly in his fifties. He had short grey hair and a clipped grey beard. He was dressed in black black mountain-climbing pants and a bronze breastplate strapped over his Camp Half-Blood t-shirt.

"That's a hellhound!" said Percy.

"She's harmless." assured the man. "That's Mrs O'Leary."

Percy blinked. "Mrs O'Leary?"

"Yes." The man nodded and pointed to the tiger. "And that Smilodon populator's name is Diego."

"Wait!" Percy knew that name and looked at the tiger as it rolled around with Mrs O'Leary. "That's Diego?"

"Yes." said a voice.

Percy and the man turned to see Appolonia, wearing a Camp Half Blood shirt and jeans.

"Hey, Quintus" She smiled to Percy. "Hey, Percy. When did you get here?"

"Is that really Diego?" Percy blurted. "He was barely the size of kitten a few months ago."

"Well, modern day cats often reach their full size by 8 or 9 months of age." Quintus mused. "Considering they're Diego's descendants, my guess you're witnessing that same thing. Only undiluted by millions of years of evolution."

Percy looked at Diego again. He kinda looked like a modern day lion rather than tiger, a light golden brown coat with a thin line of darker hair along the top of neck like a mane. His paws were the size of dinner plate and Percy thought it would better to not be on the receiving end of his claws. His tail was barely there, hardly even a foot long. Like the name implied Diego's teeth, which extended well past his lower jaw, were huge and a bite from him would be like being stabbed with two sharp daggers at the same time.

"I still can't believe he took one." Percy shook his head.

"Who?" Quintus asked.

"Artie." said Appolonia. "He said Atlas was trying to raise gray skelton soilders but used the wrong teeth."

"Speaking of which," Percy said. "Where is Artie?"

"Not sure." said Appolonia. "Why?"

"Some empousa attacked me during orientation." Percy said. "They said something about the camp in flames. I thought he might have overhead something when he was spying on Luke. Maybe some plan to attack the camp or something."

"That sounds serious." Quintus nodded gravely. "It would take a lot of power to break the camp's borders." Quintus paused. "Or a lot of cunning to slip in from behind."

"So you don't know where he is?" Percy asked. "When did last see him?"

"A day or two after Christmas." Appolonia looked uneasy.

"What?" Percy asked. "He just left?"

"More or less." Appolonia sighed. "He said he had something to do and he'd come back when he was done. He didn't exactly what or when, but told me not worry."

"I hope for your sake, dear." said Quintus. "He knows how to take care of himself."

"I'm more worried what about might happen if we do get attacked." Percy said concerned. "If Annabeth is working with Clarisse willingly, then something tells me we're going to need every once of fire power we got."

"This Artie must be quite the warrior." remarked Quintus. "If you think he could make a significant difference."

"He might not be a child of the Big Three." Appolonia beamed. "But the only child of Artemis isn't something you ignore."

"You might want to speak up, dear." Quintus cupped his ear. "I think I had something crazy in my ear. Did you say 'child of Artemis'?"

"Yeah," said Percy. "He's doing pretty good. His mom made him King of The Hunt."

"King of The Hunt?" Quintus looked puzzled.

"I got no idea what it means, but I think it means he's the best hunter in the world. Except to Artemis herself." Percy shrugged. "At least that's my guess."

"I'm still finding it difficult Artemis, thee Lady Artemis, had a child and son to top it off." said Quintus.

"Yeah," Percy agreed. "It does take some getting used to." He looked to Appolonia who seemed worried. "Still, I hope he's alright. Where ever he is."


	2. Magellen

Rodrigo Magellan had not slept for almost an entire day.

A tropical storm was coming just off the coast of Costa da Caparica. Any normal person or fourteen year old wouldn't concern themselves with it. It was not hurricane and it would most likely not cause any major damage even to any beachfront property, and if it did, that was insurance companies were for. But Rodrigo was not a normal person or fourteen year old. And a tropical storm this close to shore meant only one thing to him.

Ten foot plus waves and no waiting to ride them.

Rodrigo had been surfing most of his life and practically was born in water, literally his father liked to joke. His skill and talent was famous among his friends and family. So famous, he was certain that he was less than a year before he went pro. He had won countless contests and competitions, official and unofficial, and had been approached by a couple of sponsors. He would have signed right away, but his father had squashed them. Like every cliched parent in the world, he wanted his son to attend college before he decided on a career. Rodrigo's father had never had the chance to attend himself and wanted Rodrigo to have the opportunities he could only dream of having at his age. But like all children at Rodrigo's age, it went in one ear and out the other.

If I go pro, I can buy a college. he thought to himself as he stared at gathering storm clouds from his classroom desk.

"_Senhor_ Magellan!" barked Rodrigo's teacher in Portuguese. "While I'm sure you're very aware of your family tree, you would do well to pay attention."

Rodrigo snapped back to reality, "_Desculpe senhor_, it won't happen again."

"Perhaps you can tell us what your family name is famous for?" asked his teacher. "I'll give you a hint, it is not the invention of the surfboard."

Rodrigo gazed at the open book in front him, words shifting around due his dyslexia, and recognized the picture of his ancestor, Ferdinand Magellan. "Nothing?"

Rodrigo's teacher sneered,"Nothing?"

"Well, I'm not sure." he admitted. "He died in the Philippines and his crew was the first to circumnavigate the world, but he got the credit for it."

His teacher grumbled as he went back to teaching the rest of the class. Rodrigo stared daggers at the picture of his ancestor, tired of being reminded of his ancestry. His father constantly hounded and pushed him to do better just as much as he brought up their bloodline.

"Our name carries greatness" he always said. "It is our duty to live up to that greatness and if possible, surpass it."

Rodrigo returned his gaze to looming clouds again, One more day, and I will.

* * *

**(LATER THAT NIGHT)**

The rest of the school day passed without incident and Rodrigo continued to dwell on the approaching swell. He already had his best friend's older brother agree to drive them as well as borrow his camera to film it. All that was left was wait for the storm to arrive and it wasn't easy when one had ADHD like Rodrigo. Still, he did his best to hid his excitement when his father, Alberto Magellan, served dinner. He had no doubt if he discovered what he was planning, Rodrigo could kiss his chances of a sponsor goodbye.

Alberto slid a plate in front of Rodrigo, "Eat up."

Rodrigo looked down and saw it was Bacalhau com todos. It was simply boiled bacalhau, boiled vegetables, and hard boiled egg. "_Papai_, you do know there are other ways to cook besides boiling, right?"

"This coming from some who, just last week, nearly burnt a friend's house to the ground making popcorn?" Alberto countered with a chuckle.

Rodrigo frowned, "You get dyslexia and tell me two and half hours looks like two and half minutes."

"_Está ficando frio_." Alberto motioned to the plate in front of his son. "Tomorrow's Saturday, any plans?"

Rodrigo sighed and began to eat. "_Nem por isso_, me and Eric are gonna meet up at the park and play some _futbol_. You?"

"I have work until 16:00." Alberto took a bite. "_Futbol_? I thought you'd be heading to the beach."

Rodrigo fought to keep a straight face. "They closed the beach. They say it's too dangerous with the storm."

"Oh, that's right."

They settled back into silence as they ate. As was is habit, Rodrigo gazed around the room. It was typical kitchen. Cabinets and drawers filled with food and silverware. Pots, pans, and knives hung over a clean sink which sat next an old, but functioning, stove top. He could walk through this room and the whole house blindfolded, but he couldn't help looking around, searching for something he knew he wouldn't find.

Alberto caught his son looking, "_Sério_?, I told you. She wouldn't let me keep pictures."

Rodrigo knew who 'she' was, his mother. "_Já sabe,_ you could have tried to keep at least one."

"She knew me too well." Alberto smiled fondly at the memory. "I tried, but she knew exactly where they were."

"I'm not even sure why I bother." he picked at his food, his appetite soundly gone. "She didn't even want me."

"Don't say that." Alberto drank deeply from his wineglass. "She left to protect you."

"_Para me protege_r? Protect herself, more like it." he said bitterly. "You said it yourself. She was already married when she met you. The only reason I'm here is because she wanted to get back at her husband for having an affair."

Alberto struggled to find the right words, but failed.

Rodrigo looked down at his plate, "I'm not hungry anymore. I'm going to bed."

Alberto nodded as his son who walked to his room.

He stared at the closed door and wondered,_ Por que você fez-me prometer? You said to tell him when he is ready, but when?_

* * *

(THE NEXT MORNING)

Rodrigo's alarm clock shocked him awake.

He rolled over with a lazy groan and hit the snooze button. He laid there and gazed at the time. It was just a quarter past ten. He looked at the window and suddenly remembered the storm. He bolted out of bed and slid into his wetsuit. It was pure black with several red strips along his arms and legs. It a full jumper so it covered every inch of his body except his head, hands, and bare feet. He paused for a moment and gazed at himself in the mirror.

He ruffled his thick curly short hair that the color of coffee with cream that always seemed to fight against any attempts to tame it. The wetsuit only seemed accentuate his thin build. He had some muscle, results of countless paddling on a surfboard and swimming in the ocean, but wished he could be bigger or at least a little taller. Truth be told, he closely resembled his father in every shape and form, all except his eyes. Some small part of Rodrigo was glad he didn't have his father's light hazel eyes. He liked his were a deep beautiful shade of azure like his mother.

A car horn yanked him back to the world and dashed outside, stopping only to grab his surfboard and an energy bar. After tying his board to the top of the car, Rodrigo joined his best friend, Eric, and his older brother, Pedro, in the car and began the forty minute drive to the beach. Traffic grew lighter and lighter as they neared the beach. Rodrigo was surprised that no police were posted at any of the entrances, then he thought about it. There was a local futbol going on in town and after all, no one would be reckless enough to visit the beach with a storm approaching. He untied his board from the car and applied a fresh layer of wax as Eric and Pedro readied the camera on a tripod.

Eric shivered, it was still winter and being near the water only made it colder, "How is a tropical storm even possible in the winter?"

"All it takes is lots of warm water." answered Pedro. "The news said it came from the south. Its spring or summer there, I think."

Eric looked at Rodrigo. "You're crazy, _sabe_?" He rubbed his arms as the wind picked up. "How are you not freezing?"

Rodrigo looked at the waves begins to rise, "I'm too excited to be cold."

Eric looked at waves as well, "Can I have your surfboard if you don't make it?"

Rodrigo shot him a look. "You don't even like the water."

Eric nodded and smiled. "As a reminder not to do something incredibly _imprudente_."

Rodrigo rolled his eyes and picked up his board, "Just make sure the camera is working."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Rodrigo didn't answer and ran into the water. He ignored the initial shock of the frigid water, laid on his board, and paddled out. It a was little more challenging than he thought. The power of rising waves and currents made him work for every inch. So much so, he paused several times to rest his arms, though only for a couple of second before resuming paddling. After what seemed like an hour of paddling, he turned the board around, sat up, and waited. He switched his gaze between the approaching waves and the shore, Eric and Pedro waiting for his signal to start recording.

He sat out there, the cold starting to dig in, and let close to two dozen waves pass him by. They might have been slightly larger than he had expected, but they were still small compared to one he grew up on in the summer. He wanted, what he liked to call,_ Mão de Poseidon_, the Hand Of Poseidon. A wave so large and perfect that only the ancient sea god of Greece would dare attempt to ride it.

He waited for nearly two hours, a fact Eric and Pedro did not fail to notice he guessed from their calls to either ride a wave or return to shore. He sighed, turned his board around, and began paddling to shore. As he did, Eric and Pedro called to him, yelling and pointing for him to look behind him.

He did and saw it, "_Mão de Poseidon_ . . ."

He began paddling harder than he had ever done before. He didn't think he would be able to catch it, then he felt something begin to push the tail of his board. He laid there for a moment and stood up. He had done it, he was riding the Hand Of Poseidon. He signaled for his friends to begin recording as he set about positioning himself to attempt the hardest maneuver he had ever attempted,

The Hanging Ten Tube. It involved combining two of the hardest trick known to surfers. The first was what was known as the tube ride. As a wave breaks, if the conditions are ideal, the wave will break in an orderly line from the middle to the shoulder, enabling Rodrigo to position himself actually inside the wave as it is breaking. The longer he remained in the tube, the more successful the ride.

The next included Nose Riding or Hanging Ten. Hanging Ten referred to having both feet on the front end of the board with all of the his toes on the edge of board. It is considered one of the most impressive and iconic stunts one can perform. Both tricks were incredibly difficult to perform, but to attempt both was often considered impossible even by professionals. He inched further and further until he was a mere five centimeter from achiving greatness.

He held out both arms, his hands flat to cut the air, and hung his toes on the edge. He heard Eric and Pedro cheers mix with his own victory cry. He looked ahead and saw he was barely two meters from bulleting out of the tube and thus complected the Hanging Ten Tube.

That was when he heard a roar followed large splash.

"_O que o_ . . ." he said as he turned his head to see.

He did not get the chance.

As he turned something large and green broke through the Hand Of Poseidon. He only caught a brief glimpse of it as it sank large razor teeth into his board and disappear below the surface, taking the board and Rodrigo with it. He had the presence of mind to take a deep breath as the board's leash, attached to his ankle, ripped him off the board and dragged him under. The water was chaos of bubbles, seaweed, and foam that made it impossible for him to see. All he could tell was something was dragging his board and him along with it. The small part of his brain not focused on holding his breath considered a shark.

It was not common for a shark to sink its teeth into board, but they did not like the taste so merely bit once and left. Whatever this was, had its teeth firmly gripping his board as it swam farther and farther out to sea, not caring that a fourteen year old was still attached to it. It also did not seem to care what was in his way, not even slowing down as it plowed through reefs and rock formations. Part of Rodrigo realized that it had to be huge and powerful to do this, and no shark was large enough to do this kind of damage. He only dwelled on it for a moment and bent to untie the board's leash from his ankle.

He cursed himself for not replacing it when it had first broken. It would have been far easier to rip a Velcro strap rather than fumbling with a complicated knot, especially while being dragged underwater ad dodging debris. Panic began to creep in as he gave up trying untie himself and began pulling like a madman, the pain in his chest telling him he had seconds of air left. With a burst of desperate strength he ripped the leash from his ankle. Immediately, he felt himself slowing down as whatever continued to swim out to sea unhindered. The first part of his escape was a narrow success, now he had to reach the surface and from there, the shore. But he would not get the opportunity to attempt it.

He turned just in time to slam into the top of an underwater arch rock formation and he blacked out, his unconscious body sinking to the deeper and deeper.

* * *

_**(AN HOUR OR TWO LATER)**_

Rodrigo woke coughing and spitting wet sand from his throat with a splitting headache.

He pushed himself up on all four and continued to cough and spit. It made him feel lightheaded, but he remedied that by taking deep breaths. He still not had looked around, but he guessed he had miraculously washed ashore. He sat up, groaning as he held his head. Despite the massive headache, he was grateful to still be alive. For the moment, he had no doubt his father would kill the second he got home.

"_Você está bem?_" asked a chirpy voice. "You're lucky to be alive."

"Eu vou dizer!" said another voice, this one sounded to amused. "Did you see how he slammed into that rock. _Falar de uma cabeça dura_. I feel sorry for the rock."

Two more voices join in the second in rich heartfelt laughter. Rodrigo whipped around, planning on insulting his tormentors back. "_Feche as bocas_, before I . . . I . . ."

The people laughing at him not, in fact, people. There were five of them, two females and four males. They all had slick bluish-grey skin with a very light grey almost white underside. The two largest ones, the oldest Rodrigo guessed, were roughly two and half meters long while the other, much younger ones seemed be just under two. All six of them had elongated upper and lower jaws, forming narrow snouts. As they laughed, Rodrigo could see they each had a single row of conical teeth and a blow hole on the top of their heads.

Rodrigo just stared at them, a family of bottle nose dolphins laughing at him.

One jabbed his head centimeters from his face, "_Antes de quê_?" he mocked. "Slam into more rocks."

Rodrigo screamed as he dove behind what was left of the rock formation. He peaked his head over the edge, "_Quem é voc_ê?"

Two appeared behind him.

One of them said, "Well, considering we're not ripping you to pieces like a shark, I'd say were dolphins."

"Dolphins don't fly." he said.

"_Está certo_." said the other. "Which is why we are swimming in front you right now."

"No, you're not." said Rodrigo.

The two dolphins looked at each other before looking back at him. "What would you call it then?"

"Yeah," said other. "'Cause Jasper and me have been calling it swimming."

"You need water to swim." said Rodrigo.

"_Ouça-o_, Hidalgo." chuckled Jasper. "We need water to swim. Who knew?"

Hidalgo, the dolphin in front of him, chuckled as well, "What do you think you're standing in? _Neste exato momento muito_?"

Rodrigo frowned, he did not like being talked down to. "If we're in water, how would I breath?"

Jasper and Hidalgo stopped laughing and considered it.

Jasper swam around him, "_Você tem um ponto_, how are you breathing?"

Hidalgo called to other dolphins, "Well, Mom? _Como ele está respirando por aqui_?"

One of the larger circled him, her voice unmistakably female. "_Eu não tenho certeza_, the only child of the Earthshaker was last seen near Florida."

The other large dolphin also began to circle him, this one sounded male. "_E ele fala português_, Daphne. Shouldn't he speak Spanish or English?"

"I'm dreaming." Rodrigo concluded. "It was all a dream and so is this."

That was when the smallest of them all swam up and bit Rodrigo on the ankle.

He yelped and rubbed his ankle as it faced him, its voice sounding like a chirpy child. "Was that a dream?"

"Esmeralda!" scolded the large male, "What have I said about biting?"

Esmeralda, the small one gave a bored response, "_Só se morder primeiro_, but he was taking forever and I'm hungry."

"Fome?" demanded the large male. "Do really expect to eat after you —"

"Jorge?" interrupted Daphne. "Do you think you can gives us some _privacidade_?"

Jorge looked annoyed as he and the rest swam a few meters away. Rodrigo watched as Jorge yelled at Esmeralda as Jasper and Hidalgo laughed and swam around playfully. That was when he looked around saw why they had laughed at him. They were in fact in water, and more importantly so was he. Rodrigo looked around frantically as if to find something to the contrary. There was a colorful reef some distance away where small fish darted in and out. A school of mackerel swam lazily overhead like a flock of birds. He felt something crawling over his hand and saw it was a couple of small crabs.

He could come up with two explanations. Either he was still unconscious and this was a dream, or he was dead and for some reason his spirit was stuck at the bottom of the sea. It was only when he felt something rubbing his ankle did snap back to reality.

"_Você vai ter que perdoar_ Esmeralda," said Daphne as she rubbed the bruise Esmeralda had left on his ankle. "Its good thing you're not bleeding, a shark is the last thing you want to deal with right now."

"Am I dead?" Rodrigo asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"No." she said. "But you came close."

"Then how am I breathing?"

"_Não sei_. I'd say you were a child of the Earthshaker, but he only has one. And he was last seen near Florida. You've never been there before?"

Rodrigo shook his head, "I've only been to Spain and that was two years ago."

"And your name is not Percy Jackson?"

"Rodrigo. Rodrigo Magellan."

"Then you're not his child."

"Who is this Earthshaker?"

Daphne seemed to be listening to another voice and hesitated for a moment before saying, "We need to get you home."

"But — "

Daphne called to others, "Find some seaweed!"

The others scrambled and began plucking long flowing strands of green plants growing out of the seabed.

Rodrigo was sure he misheard, "Seaweed?"

Daphne had him weave and tie strands of seaweed as the rest brought more. Before long, he had made several yards of rope, He wasn't sure how this was suppose to get him home, but continued following her instructions. She had Rodrigo tie makeshift harnesses around Hidalgo and Jasper and attached to an old piece of wood he would hold on to.

Daphne explained that Jasper and Hidalgo would pull him along while she, Jorge, and Esmeralda swam along side him in case something should happen. She also explained that had he been a child of the Earthshaker, she would not elaborate further on who he was, he could simply will the currents to carry him to shore, but he could not.

"_Apenas certifique-se que você não deixe ir_." advised Jorge. "Otherwise you'll lose momentum and sink."

"So this like — "

The words were forced back in his throat as Jasper and Hidalgo took off like rockets and shot towards the surface, dragging him like a ragdoll. They broke the surface with a flourish and splashed back down. All Rodrigo could see were two tails fins swimming frantically in front of him mixed the sound of amused laughter. He leaned backward and brought his feet forward. Slowly from a crouch, he stood and locked his legs. Using his bare feet as water skis, Rodrigo thought he must looked like the strangest water skier in the world. He gazed around and saw clear skies and open sea in every direction, except due north where a hazy outline of land that was Costa da Caparica. He looked to either side and saw Daphne and Jorge swimming along side as Esmeralda darted around him and them playfully.

The air was slightly chilly, but after being on the cold ocean floor, it was no unduly cold. Still, he promised himself a warm bowl of soup when he reached the shore. After a few minutes, he began to enjoy himself and even tried a few simple tricks, Esmeralda hopping out of the water to encourage him to do more. He was about to oblige her, when he heard the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle, growing louder as if it was closing in. He also heard music. He could not understand it, but he was sure it was English and not Portuguese. It had an old sound to it, like a famous sound from a bygone era, and he fought to urge to tap his foot to it.

_Look out new world here we come_

_Brave, intrepid and then some_

_Pioneers of maximum_

_Audacity whose resumes_

_Show that we are just the team_

_To live where others merely dream_

_Building up a head of steam_

_On the trail we blaze_

Suddenly there was a spray of water in face, momentary blinding him. He wiped his face and his jaw dropped at what he saw. Next to him, smiling like he did this everyday, was teenager riding a strange motorcycle. He looked to be about sixteen or seventeen and wore no shirt, his forearms and hands protected by leather bracers and gauntlets. Every inch of visible skin was had a rich deep tan and was smooth, except for a star shaped scar on his right shoulder the size of a large coin on his right shoulder and left knee.

He wasn't overly muscular but he wasn't scrawny by any means. He was more like a long distance runner, thin and compact. He wasn't what Rodrigo would call devilishly handsome, but a pair of sunglasses hid eyes from view and added an air of mystery. Besides the glasses, he had a single scar over his left eye that began just over his eyebrow and ended just under his left cheek. Rodrigo guessed he had been on the receiving end of something with razor sharp claws.

His long hair was strange, black with several streaks of silver, as it whipped loosely behind him in the wind. He bobbed his head and tapped his foot to the music. He also wore no shoes and a strange white sword hung on his left hip in leather sheath.

_Changing legend into fact_

_We shall ride into history_

_Turning myth into truth_

_We shall surely gaze_

_On the sweet unfolding_

_Of an antique mystery_

_All will be revealed_

_On the trail we blaze_

Then Rodrigo the stranger had a passenger,sitting behind him with his arms around his waist. He looked older than the driver, perhaps just at the age to attend college. He also seemed to a relative, maybe an older brother or cousin of the driver. He was lean with the same deep tan on his skin. While the younger one was clean shaven, he had a well trimmed mustache and goatee that matched his long silky chestnut brown hair, which blew free in the wind, matched in color and luster.

His clothes were a bit stranger. He wore a long golden leather trench coat over a clean dark shirt, fresh blue jeans, and combat boots. And though Rodrigo thought the stranger was wearing gold watches on both wrists, it turned out to be celestial bronze gauntlets.

The driver spoke, but Rodrigo cupped his ear with a free hand.

The stranger nodded and flipped off the music. "Sorry about that. Its been only us for three days."

Rodrigo cocked his head, "_Não entendo_."

The stranger brightened and spoke Portuguese with a strange accent. "Oh, _você fala português_. That must mean that's Portugal over there, right." he pointed to Costa da Caparica.

"Sim." Rodrigo nodded slowly, "How are you doing that?"

He looked down at the bike, "What do you see?"

"A motorcycle."

"Not a jet ski?" asked the passenger, speaking for the first time.

"A motorcycle that looks like some weird kind of _veado_."

"_Bem, isso me poupa tempo procurando_." The driver extended a hand. "My name is Artie."

Rodrigo was about to shake Artie's hand when Esmeralda shot of the water and bit down on Artie's forearm. Artie seemed to be amused as she wiggled and bit down harder on his bracer. Rodrigo was about speak when Jorge shot out the water and tackled her off Artie's arm with high pitched grunt.

Artie chuckled, "A little protective, _não é ela_?"

Rodrigo looked down as Daphne apologized for her Esmeralda, "She says she didn't know you were a friend." He shook Artie's hand. "I'm Rodrigo Magellan."

"_Como o explorador_, eh?" The passenger extended his hand. "I'm Jacob.

Artie yawned, "Rodrigo, we've been driving since we left New York three days ago, is there anyplace we can grab a bite and talk, its important."

Rodrigo looked as they neared Costa da Caparica, "There's cafe on the boardwalk. They know me, we can talk there. Maybe you explain what's going on."

Artie inclined his head, "_Eu posso fazer isso_."

Then suddenly a roar sounded in the distance. Rodrigo remembered that sound, it was the same roar he heard before he was dragged out to sea. They all turned and saw something large and snake like in the distance racing towards them. It was roughly the size of train car and half as thick. Its hide was made of an ugly shade of green scales with sickly yellow stripes that matched a dorsal fin that ran along the top of its body. Its eyes were black and lifeless, like a doll's eyes, and had them in its sight. Lodged between a row of long dagger like teeth was the remains, and showed Rodrigo how he came to be water skiing with dolphins, of Rodrigo's surfboard.

"_Que diabos é isso_?" asked Rodrigo.

"A sea monster." Artie gave the approaching monster a quizzical look

"_A um jovem pelos olhares dele_." Jacob cocked his head to see it properly.

"A young one?" Rodrigo pointed to it. "That's my surfboard he's as a toothpick."

Artie looked annoyed, "_Eu juro_, we must have killed three by now. You'd think they'd get the hint by now. Hell, I even ate one once."

"Really?" Jacob seemed curious. "Any good?"

"He's getting closer." Rodrigo said trying to keep his voice calm. "_O que fazemos_?"

"Keep an eye on him for me." Artie turned around and unzipped a leather carrying case hanging off the motorcycle's end and began digging around. "The one time I decide to take it off . . . "

"I warned you to keep it on." Jacob frowned. "But no, Mr. Rambo, knows everything. They'll leave us alone you said."

"Another word and you better learn to speak dolphin." Artie growled.

"He's picking up speed." Rodrigo said nervously. "I say we should run."

"We could try, but your friends can't out run him." Artie pulled out a golden bronze tube with a leather strap. "Have one of your friends fish me out if I fall. I can't breath underwater." Artie turned to Jacob. "Keep the bike steady."

"Sure." Jacob scrambled over Artie and gripped the bike. "Its my turn to drive anyway."

"What are going to do?" Rodrigo motioned to the bronze tube. "What is that?"

Artie then stood up on the seat, a silver longbow appearing in his hand. He reached behind his neck as an arrow appeared from the tube. He leaned forward on one knee as he pulled back the string and aimed.

Artie smiled, "Smile, you son of a — "

The arrow flew from Artie's and sped off toward the giant sea snake. Rodrigo wasn't sure how a single arrow would stop such big monster. It was like poking a elephant with a toothpick. Then it exploded into a million arrows, so thickly flying together they actually blocked the monster from view. There was another roared followed by massive splash and a wave. Rodrigo nearly lost his balance as the wave passed by. He looked back at the sea monster, bleeding into the sea as it sank below the depths and seagulls descended and began pecking at it for food.

There was a hiss from the bronze tube and steam billowed out of it. "I think you broke it."

"No, it just means I have to wait a day before I can use it again." Artie slipped it off and placed back in the bag. "I have any kind of arrow I can think of, but the more powerful it is, like that one, it needs time to cool down."

"And if another comes along?"

"You should be worried when we reach land." Jacob chuckled. "I hope this cafe of yours has decent meat because we've been eating fish for every meal for three days straight." He motioned to Artie who was digging through another bag and slipped on a shirt. "Unlike someone here, I don't have the palete to know the difference between raw mackeral and raw tuna."

* * *

_**(ONE HOUR AND A VERY LARGE LUNCH LATER)**_

"Bolo de Bolach" the waitress placed a slice of cake in front Artie.

"_Obrigado_." Artie said as she refilled his cup with coffee

The waitress held up the pot and looked to Rodrigo, "Another cup?"

Rodrigo shook his head, "_Nenhum para mim_."

"One more for me please." Jacob held up his mug.

The waitress smiled and walked away after filling Jacob's mug with coffee. Rodrigo glanced at small pile of plates stacked on the table. Artie alone had consumed two large bowls of beef stew with two loaves of bread, four steaks the size of small tire, several servings of rice and steamed vegetables, a small salad, and wash it down with countless cups of coffee. Rodrigo was surprised Artie even had the room to ingest liquids when he ordered dessert, but Jacob joked his brother simply explained he had a very active metabolism.

Rodrigo sipped his coffee, "Now, do you mind telling me what's going on?"

Artie held up a finger and tasted the cake, "_Isto é bom_."" He turned to Jacob. "Remind me to order some to go. We could use something to eat on the road."

"_Pare de encher a cara e responde-me_!" Rodrigo slammed his mug on the table. "What was all that?"

"Alright, alright." Jacob smiled gently as he mixed milk and sugar into his coffee. "How familiar are you with Greek mythology?"

"You mean like Hercules and Achilles?"

"Those are their children." Artie sipped his coffee. "We mean the gods themselves."

"What do some stories from ancient Greece have to with me being able to breath underwater? Or talk with dolphins."

"What would you say if we told you that those stories from ancient Greece weren't just stories to explain how the seasons changed?" Artie took a bite of his cake.

"What if I told you that they were right?" Jacob added.

"I would call you crazy." Rodrigo said plainly. "Along with everyone else in the world."

"Well not everyone," Artie amended. "Granted a large amount, but not everyone."

"You still haven't answered me. What do the gods of ancient Greece have to do with me?"

"Everything." Jacob sipped his coffee. "It may sound crazy, but those gods didn't just disappear. They're still around today."

"Are you trying to tell me there is a God?"

"As in the father of Jesus Christ, that God? That depends on what you want to believe." Artie shook his head. "But the Greek gods of Olympus? Those exist."

Rodrigo wasn't sure he understood. "Alright, lets say I believe you and those gods did exist — "

"Do exist." Artie corrected. "Word of advice, try to avoid offending them when you can."

Rodrigo resisted the urge to punch him, "Do exist. What do they have to with me? Are you telling me that I'm a god?"

"Not entirely." Artie chuckled and took another bite of his cake. "Only half."

"Half?"

"Half mortal and half god." Jacob said. "A half blood or demigod."

"That's impossible."

"Search your feelings, Rodrigo." Artie said quoting Star Wars. "You know it to be true."

"You don't know anything about me. We only just met."

"Really?" Artie locked eyes with him. "I know you have dyslexia along with ADHD. All you know of your mother is what your father has told you. "

You sometimes see things that others can't."Jacob took over." And despite your better judgement, in the back of your head, you're considering everything we're telling you to be true."

Rodrigo was shocked, "How . . . how do . . . how do you know?"

"Everyone one of us has gone through it." Artie smiled. "Face it, Rodrigo. You are a demigod."

"So my mother was a god?" He wasn't sure he could even grasp the concept. "Wait, she was married. My dad told me, I was the result of her husband having an affair.

"Those are the gods of Olympus for you."Jacob threw his arms in a 'what can ya do about it' gesture. "They're all married, but that doesn't stop them from having children with mortals."

" Every single demigod is a result of an affair." Artie paused for a moment. "An affair? Funny, I think I know who was the result of her husband's affair."

"Really?"

Artie nodded. "His name is Percy Jackson."

"The dolphins mentioned that name. They called him the son of the Earthshaker."

"He's a son of Poseidon. He's not only the god of the sea but hurricanes and earthquakes too."

Rodrigo sifted through his memory as he tried to remember who was the wife of the sea god. "So if I was born because Poseidon had an affair and his wife want to get back him, then my mother is . . ."

"Amphritrie." Artie finished the last of his coffee.

"Queen of the Sea and of the Neirids, water nymphs." Jacob added.

"So that's why I can breath underwater?" he asked. "And talk with dolphins."

Artie nodded. "Beside her legitimate son, Triton, her children include dolphins and seals. Though I haven't actually asked, I assume all demigods can communicate with their parent's sacred animal."

"So what about you?" Rodrigo motioned to Artie. "Which god is your parent?"

"Apollo." said Jacob. "One of the Twin Archers and god of music and poetry.

"Artemis." said Artie. "The other Twin Archer and the maiden goddess of hunting and the moon."

"Maiden? but doesn't that mean — "

"Yes. Along with Athena and Hestia." Artie interrupted. "I'm a little bit of a rare case. Look Rodrigo, there's a reason why we came to Europe."

"What?"

"There's a war brewing in the United States." Artie stared at the remains of his cake, his appetite lost. "The titans are rising, particularly the Titan Lord Kronos."

"And that's bad?"

"The gods defeated the titans while they were in Greece, but they couldn't kill them. They were and still are immortal." Artie seemed troubled."The problem is, the gods are forbidden direct contact with the world and have use heroes, demigods, to fight them."

"The titans aren't restricted by those rules and since they're building armies of demigods and monsters, we need every able body demigod to help us defend Olympus." Jacob motioned. "That's where you come in."

"Aren't there demigods in America?"

"Yes, but for the lack of better word, the well has run dry." Artie explained."There aren't just any demigods being created."

"Which is weird considering they can be at dozen different places at one time." Jacob mused. "Realy weird if you consider how my dad and Hermes are. Not to mention Aphrodite."

"So they sent you to find another source." Rodrigo guessed. "But won't these titans think to do the same?"

"No. they think that since the god's of center of power is in the united states and that there won't be other demigods outside of the country." Artie motioned to himself and Jacob. "But we grew up together in all the way in southern Brazil. Rio to be exact."

"At least that's our guess." Jacob swirled the coffee in his mug. "The head titan is famous for thinking outside the box.

"So that explains how you two can speak Portuguese." Rodrigo paused. "Together? Are you guys brothers?

"Yes." Jacob motioned. "But we aren't twins. I'm actually three years older."

"Though you'd guess otherwise." Artie rolled otherwise. "The entire ride over here was nothing but I'm cold, I'm hungry, raw fish again, why can't we take a plane."

"Brother?"Rodrigo shook his head."If your a son of Artemis wouldn't that make him your cousin?"

"We were raised to believe we were brothers." Jacob said gently. "Neither of us didn't find out until we were separated and reached the United State that we were cousins, half cousins technically."

"So you want me to fight in this war between the titans and the gods?" Rodrigo looked skeptical. " Why should I risk my life in a war that has nothing to with me?"

"It has everything to with you." Artie corrected. "If the gods lose, the world will fall back into the dark ages. Yes, it will start in America, but how long before it spreads to the rest of the world?"

"Imagine a world where everything you've to take for granted is gone." Jacob warned. "No more music, art, books, or films. And that's just for mortals without a single drop of godly blood in them."

"Its worse for the demigods?"

Jacob nodded gravely, "You can look forward to being hunted for the rest of your life. Constantly moving from place to place, wondering if you'll live to see the next day or when your next meal will come."

"I can tell you from experience its not fun." Artie said very seriously.

"So that's it?" Rodrigo asked. "You only helped me so I'll fight in this war."

Artie shook his head, "No, we're giving you something neither of us was given when we were much younger. A choice."

"A choice?"

Jacob nodded gravely. "I was twelve when the Titan Atlas sent a manticore to kill Artie. It killed our mother and nearly killed me to get us out of the way"

"I was eight and managed to escape into the Amazon rainforest." Artie growled. "I spent the next four year being chased all over South and Central America thinking our Jacob was dead along with our mother for protecting me."

"What's a manticore?"

"A monster that has body of a lion, a human head with three rows of sharp teeth, and the tail of scorpion that can shoot poisonous spines." Artie explained. "Luckily for you, there aren't many monsters this far away from America. That's why you've gone so long without seeing any until now."

"I feel a but coming."

"We might not even need you when it comes down to it," Jacob admitted."But do you really think you could live with yourself when your friends and family are enslaved knowing you could have made a difference?"

Rodrigo wasn't sure how to respond.

Artie stood from the table and laid several strange looking coins on the table, "Come on, let's take a walk."

* * *

_**( A NON ROMANTIC STROLL DOWN THE BEACH LATER )**_

Rodrigo, Jacob, and Artie stood on the beach. Rodrigo looked to the horizon as the sun began to set. Artie did the same, leaning against the a lamp post. No one said a word, Rodrigo was still trying to process everything the brothers had told him. Artie was thinking of Appolonia and wondered what she was up to. He wished he could see her or even write her a letter, but he could risk anyone discovering his mission to find and recruit foreign demigods for an elite branch of solders.

"How long are you planning on staying?" asked Rodrigo.

"Not long." Artie answered. "While I'm sure there are more demigods in this country, your mother was the only one who told us about."

"Where will you go?"

"I haven't given it much thought." Artie admitted. "But I suppose we'll head east to Spain then work my way up north through France. From there I could go to Germany or Ireland, but we'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

"I vote we go straight to Switzerland." Jacob chuckled. "Though I hear some nice things about the girls in Paris."

"What about me? If I decide to go, should I just buy a plane ticket to New York."

"No." Artie took out plane ticket from his back pocket. "Here. Lucky for you Zeus won't mind a son of Amphritrite in the sky."

Rodrigo read the plane ticket. "Greece?"

"Thermopylae to be exact." Artie explained. "When you land in Athens head north to Lamia. Just read the signs"

"I can't read Greek or english."

"Greek comes naturally to us as demigods." Jacob told him. "But I suggest you learn english, it'll make things a lot easier. Also, there's a deadline. If you do decide to come, make sure its before summer is halfway over. Otherwise we won't have enough time to train."

"Train for what?"

"To fight. " Artie explained. "This is supposed to be a secret group of solders. If we were to train at Camp Half Blood in New York, we'd be tipping our hand for nothing."

"Oh, right."

"Speaking of tips." pulled a pen from his breast pocket. "You won't survive long enough without a weapon that can kill monsters. Here, your mother told me to give this to you."

Rodrigo accepted the pen. It was sea green with gold trimmings. It was expertly hand painted to show calm sea with seagulls flying overhead and dolphin jumping out of the water. It was clearly an expensive looking fountain pen, but Rodrigo wasn't sure how this would defend himself against monsters.

"I get the pen is mightier than the sword," said Jacob."but I think you're taking it too literal."

Artie rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Click it."

Rodrigo looked down and saw it was really a click pen, not a fountain pen. He clicked it and, in less than a second, grew and shot up like a rocket. Rodrigo found himself holding a two meter long harpoon. The tip was bronze with three razor sharp heads a couple of centimeters apart from each other. The handle was made of solid gray stone with bits of coral and seashells embedded within the stone. Where the tip met the handle, was a length of rope tied as it ran down the rest of the handle to the butt.

"The tip is made of what we call celestial bronze." Artie explained. "Its deadly to monsters, but won't harm any mortals no matter how hard you try."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but remember since you're half god and half mortal, you can be harmed and even killed by both celestial bronze and normal weapons."

Artie took something out of his pocket and threw it over his shoulder. Suddenly his motorcycle appeared, the one he crossed the north Atlantic, sitting in the sand. Artie mounted the bike and slipped on a helmet that looked like it belonged on some ancient battlefield. He kicked the engine and it roared to life. Jacob grumbled under his breath and Rodrigo guessed that Jacob did not want get on after three days and nights of riding.

Artie then slipped something out of his pocket."I almost forgot." Artie handed Rodrigo a photo. "Here, your mother wanted you to have this."

Rodrigo took it and gasped. It was a picture of a man, a baby, and a woman. They were on the beach. He was surprised to see the man was his father, smiling like happiest man in the world. So that meant that women, holding a baby Rodrigo wrapped in a beach towel, was his mother.

Amphitrite was beautiful with deep azure eyes that matched the baby's. She had long flowing black hair that ended just past her slender shoulders and wore delicate barrettes that looked like crab claws. Both his father and mother smiled boldly into the camera as his father snapped a picture with one hand and wrapped the other around his mother. He turned the picture over and saw someone had written on it in flowing green script.

_My Dearest Rodrigo,_

_The real reason I did not allow your father to keep any photographs was simple. Your father was horrible photographer, but this was one of the few where his finger didn't cover the lens, the loveable oaf._

_Love,_

_Amphitrite_

Rodrigo swallowed hard and fought back tears, "Thank you."

Artie inclined his head, "Your welcome."

Artie then revved the bike twice before they sped off toward the sun set. Rodrigo watched him until they became a speck in the distance and disappeared. He glanced around and smiled when he found what he was looking for. He walked to a payphone and dialed his number.

"Hello?" greeted his father. "_Quem é esse_?"

"Dad?"

"Rodrigo? Where have you been?"

Rodrigo glanced as the harpoon in his free hand. "I got a little sidetracked. Can you come get me?"

"Alright, we need to have talk when we get home."

He held the photo of his mother, "I know."


	3. Alves

Jacob pulled his jacket and thick blanket around him tighter. "What did you say?" He held his hands over a large fire in an attempt to warm them. "I was too busy freezing to death."

"I was saying we got lucky." Artie tossed more wood on the fire. "Finding Rodrigo and all."

"Really?" Jacob was grateful for the extra wood on the fire. "How so?"

"Amphritrite knew we were going to start in Europe, namely Portugal." Artie said. "I'm thinking she sent those dolphin to nudge Rodrigo into our direction."

"I still say we should have gone directly west from Miami." Jacob protested. "Three days tops and we would hit dry land instead of angling north and taking a week."

"And end up in Morocco." Artie explained. "I can't speak Arabic and I don't know a thing about the place except for what I picked up in Casablanca."

"How is Portugal any different?"

"Well for one thing, we speak the language. Not to mention most of europe speaks english at least in the touristy places." Artie waved his hand dismissively. "We can debate this later. The point I was trying to make is we got lucky finding Rodrigo the way we did. Now we have no leads on where to go to next."

"I thought you had that covered." Jacob said. "Like a list or something."

"No." Artie paused. "Wait!"

Jacob watched as Artie dug around several pouches on his belt. He was surprised how much Artie had crammed into his belt. He had dozens and dozens of little cylinders that Jacob knew were gadget arrow heads that Artie took from his quiver. Those took up most of the room in his belt, but Artie also had some basic medical supplies like bandages and high grade painkillers along with some nectar and ambrosia square for the more exotic injuries.

Then Jacob looked to the small pot that hung over the fire. While he made camp, Artie had gone hunting and brought back two rabbits. Jacob had watched as his brother effortlessly gutted and skinned them before filling the pot with water and setting it to boil. After adding salt, pepper, and some wild mushrooms he found while hunting Artie assured his brother a warm bowl of rabbit stew was on its way.

"Well?" Jacob poured himself a bowl and one for Artie. "Just look for it later. Come on, the stew's getting cold."

"Found it!" Artie exclaimed with a scroll in his fist.

"Found what?"

"This!" Artie unrolled the scroll next to Jacob on the floor. "Athena gave this to me back on Olympus. She said it couldn't be read while in the western hemisphere. It's supposed to save us time looking."

Jacob set his bowl aside a looked. At first it was just a blank sheet of paper, but little black dots appeared and began to trail around it, leaving lines in thier wake.

"What's it doing?" Jacob asked.

"I'm not sure." Artie waited a moment. "But it looks like . . . a map!"

It was. Once the little dots were finished darting around randomly, Jacob saw they were looking at a map of Europe and Asia with all the countries clearly labeled with their capitals and major cities.

Jacob smiled. "Alright, we got a map."

"But where are we?" Artie frantically scanned the map.

At his words, a little golden X appeared an inch or two above Seville with Parque Natural Sierra de Aracena y Picos de Aroche written above it.

"So we are in Spain." Jacob concluded. "Who knew the map got voice activated GPS?"

"Yeah." Artie nodded. "In a national park if my dyslexia isn't screwing up my Spanish."

"Where to?" Jacob asked.

Like before, the map answered. A dotted line began trailing south before stopping on Seville. The Gallezi brothers watched as a little symbol as a little glowing lyre blinked like a turn signal on a car. Before they could even smile some writing appeared below the lyre.

"Hesperia Sevilla. Av Eduardo Dato, 49, 41018." Jacob read aloud and looked to Artie who was beaming. "Is that easy? Just ask?"

"Apparently." Artie punched the air in triumph and smirked. "And unless I'm wrong," He pointed to the lyre. "We're a day away from meeting your half brother."

* * *

Carlos Alves was not in the best of moods. In fact, he was feeling terrible. After three years of being expelled from various private schools, his stepfather Jorge Santana had issued an ultimatum to his wife about her trouble magnet dyslexic and ADD ridden stepson. Either send the delinquent to the army to learn some discipline and respect for rules or he was out.

Already an accomplished lawyer and not one for ultimatum herself, Deborah Santana carefully packed up everything she owned and moved with her son from their quiet home in Madrid to a Seville. She had even gotten a divorce and took her maiden name back to boot which now matched her son.

Carlos never said it aloud, especially to his mother, but he never really liked his stepfather. Still, he felt really guilty by forcing his mother into a difficult position by forcing her to chose between himself and her husband. She always worked hard to pay tuition for his school and never complained about it. Carlos had always wondered what exactly his mother saw in him and why she never made him get job. All Jorge ever did was watch futbol and place bets over the phone. On the rare chance he won, he'd send Carlos to the more dangerous parts of the city to pick up his winnings and god help Carlos if he was only mugged.

He had always done his best to stay out of trouble, but trouble always seemed to be a step away. Carlos tried to explain he pulled the school fire alarm because he was attacked by an eight foot tall man with bulging muscles saying he wanted to eat him, but when the police they couldn't seem to see what Carlos saw and he was expelled. When he attended a school field trip to the zoo in Sevilla, somehow the cows in the petting zoo figured out they could easily smash through their pens and began following him. Carlos swore he didn't let them out and that he didn't go within three meters of them, but no one believed him. After all, cows didn't have opposable thumbs.

No matter how hard he tried, something or someone came along to stir up trouble and Carlos was blamed for it. Now it cost him his friends and his home in Madrid.

While his mother was a great lawyer, he wondered how they would get by. She made her living by fighting lawyers of big recording companies. Sometimes singers and musicians found they did not have the rights to their art. The problem was that even she won, which she did a fair amount of the time, her clients took large amounts of time to gather the necessary funds since the companies pocketed most of the money made by their artists. Sometimes she took on a pro bono case without even meaning too, taking pity on her clients.

That's where she was now, in court, as Carlos amused himself at home. Home was a bit of a stretch. They hadn't been in Seville that long and were staying at the Hesperia Sevilla, a hotel, until they found an apartment. As if dyslexia wasn't bad enough, Carlos's ADD made it really difficult to keep himself occupied. He might catch up to see how his futbol team, Real Madrid, was doing which he followed up with a couple of minutes of a badly dubbed movie from America.

"El Padrino? Starring Al Pacino and Marlon Brando?" Carlos turned the TV off with a flourish and said to no one. "Let me guess, the godfather is dying and finds God."

He checked the clock and saw his mother was not due back for a couple of hours. He had promised not to wander the streets of an unfamiliar city so he left thier room and made his way to the roof instead of the lobby. It was still winter for the norther part of the world and the weatherman had predicted a chance of snow so he made sure to grab jacket to throw over his Raul Gonzalez futbol jersey.

Despite the cold, Carlos felt relaxed as he gazed across the city. He could make out the city's university to the east, aptly named the University of Seville, and Torre De Oro farther out. Maybe there was something to the city. After all, people still honked their horns as they shouted obscenities while they drove like maniacs. The streets were still crowded as Madrid and unless someone told him different, a city like this had to have a stadium for his team to play. It certainly had several public parks with enough room for him and a few others to have a game or two of their own.

Growing bored with surveying the landscape, Carlos reached into his jacket and pulled out a slingshot. It wasn't one of those newer modern models. It was you'd think when someone mentioned a slingshot. It was a plain Y-shaped frame made of polished wood with two rubber strips attached to the uprights. The other ends of the strips lead back to a pocket which held the projectile which normally was small pebble or a coin for Carlos.

All of his friends back home had them, but they had the sleek more modern models. It never bothered him in the slighests. Sure they were easier to pull back and didn't break as easily, but he could out shoot his friends with his eyes shut. They never fired at birds or stray animals, Carlos was glad he didn't have to even mention it, but would throw cans into the air and try to hit them before they hit the ground or they would set them along a wall some distance away.

Carlos fished into his pockets and found he had a bank breaking ten coins. They weren't real coins, not really. One of his friends back in Madrid had a father that worked in a machine shop that snuck in and used a press on scrape sheets of metal to make little discs or balls for them shoot. He hadn't had the chance to visit his friend to replenish his stock before he moved. He wasn't sure exactly he should shoot at. He hadn't set up cans or even brought them to throw into the air.

He was about to put away his slingshot, at least until he made a trip downstairs and find some cans in the hotel dumpster, when some movement caught his eye to the east. It looked like small little dots were flying and diving around a bird.

"En el nombre de Dios . . . " He squinted and saw the strangest thing.

Unless he was seeing things, it looked like a flock of pigeons was swarming a hawk. Carlos saw these were not normal looking pigeons. They seemed to have long razor sharp golden beaks and talons. As far as he could tell, the hawk looked normal except maybe for brick red tail feathers, but he wasn't an expert. He did know enough to know pigeons were not supposed to be that aggressive and not have talons and sharp beaks.

Carlos placed a coin into his pouch and held the slingshot sideways, pulling back as he did so. If asked how he was so accurate, Carlos would claim he couldn't put it into words. It just came natural to him. He knew there was a cross wind blowing from the east and he knew had to shoot where his target would be instead of where it was since there would be at least a second and a half delay from when the coin was released until it covered the distance. He knew the coin would also drop so he adjusted his aim a bit higher. All of this he processed in the time it took to blink and pick a pigeon and without be taught, he fired as he exhaled when he knew his body was the most relaxed.

Carlos watched as the coin rocketed and hit the bird right in its chest. It went through the bird, but not with the burst of blood and feathers he expected. The coin just passed through the pigeon's body like it wasn't even there. Carlos guessed it must have felt something because it blinked and looked at him, screeching like a banshee in protest. However it also distracted it long enough for the hawk to grasp its throat with its own talon and drive its beak into the skull. Then things got really weird.

The pigeon exploded into fine gold dust, swept away by the wind an instant later.

As if it wasn't enough clues that he wasn't dealing with ordinary pigeons, the now dead pigeon's comrades shrieked and made a bee line for him. Carlos panicked and fired the rest of his ammunition, but like the first coin they merely passed through the bird if they didn't downright miss. Also like before, they forgot they had really left a large bird of prey pretty steamed and not in the traditional way with green beans and a side of rice.

Carlos dropped to the floor as the rest of the flock, maybe a total of five, employed a dive bomb like fighter jets on a bombing run. They missed and Carlos looked up to see them circling around for another pass, but they never got the chance. From high above, like feathered missile, the hawk screeched as it collided with two and they exploded into dust. Carlos didn't know it then, but that particular breed of hawk could exceed speeds of one-hundred ninety kilometers per hour which was roughly one-hundred twenty miles per hour.

The sudden gust from the hawk's dive sent the two spinning, screeching as they tried to level out. The hawk effortlessly pulled up and dove again, pinning the pigeons' heads on the edge of building with such force they exploded into dust. Carlos stood as the hawk pinned the final pigeon to the floor, which had crashed to the floor when hawk's dive bomb scattered them. It began plucking , very carefully and deliberately, feathers from the bird's wings and ignoring its pained screeching and struggles. Then, with no remorse of hesitation, picked the squawking creature with in its beak and tossed it off the roof.

"Remind me not to get on your bad side." Carlos said uneasy. The hawk's stare was making him nervous, like it was evaluating him. "Thanks for the help. What were those things?" The hawk cocked his head quizzically and Carlos face palmed. "_Estoy hablando con un pájaro_."

The hawk seemed to have finished rest or had grown bored and took off. Carlos watch as it made it glided down to a lower building, another hotel by the looks of it, and he was surprised. Someone was standing on the roof and he seemed to be wearing some sort of hooded cape. When the hawk neared, the figure stretched his an arm out and the hawk perched on it. Carlos squinted to get a better view and the figure actually waved at him. Without thinking, Carlos waved back.

He was about to call out or motion to meet at street level when the door to the hotel flew open, his mother followed an instant later. "Carlos! ¿_Dónde estabas?"_

Carlos jumped. "Mom?"

"Yes." Hr shouldered drop as she relaxed. "What were you doing up here?"

"I was . . ." Carlos pointed as he looked to the other rooftop. "Where did he go?"

"Who?"

"There was someone on the roof." Carlos pointed. "Right there. He was wearing some kind of _capote_."

"It's winter." She laid an arm around her son and led him inside."I'd be more surprised if he wasn't wearing."

Carlos explained over dinner, which his mother had brought from the resteraunt down the block, and Deborah seemed to trying hard to make it sound that she didn't believe him. She fumbled to make an effort to explain what he had seen. Maybe some rare pigeons from the zoo had escaped and the hawk was simply following its instincts. That those same rare pigeons, like octopuses shooting ink, didn't explode into dust and only made it look like that as a defense. No matter what Carlos said, she came up a way to explain it. But he couldn't notice how she scrambled sometimes for an explanation, like she was making excuses to hide what she knew was true. Eventually he dropped it when he saw it was clear she wasn't going to budge.

He knew that all too well whenever he asked about his father. At best, she would say that Carlos looked just like him. Carlos had the same caramel colored skin, light hazel eyes and very messy brown hair which fought all attempts to tame it. She would be quick to say he still had her square face and round eyes, but his broad nose and a square jaw was all his father. Carlos didn't know much about him. All he knew was that his mother met him during her last year of law school and nine months later he was born. He didn't know if he had died, was already married to another woman, or if he just bolted when he saw he was going to be a father.

"Oh, I forgot to mention." Deborah said cheerfully. "I found a new school. I had enough time to pick up your uniform." She motioned to the couch. "Its more or less the same as the others."

"_Qué desperdicio de dinero_!" Carlos rolled his eyes at the navy blue suit and tie. "All that money spent on uniforms and music classes are the first thing to go when those _burócratas _at the top can't afford that vacation in Barcelona."

"It teaches how to dress properly." Deborah defended. "It lets people know you know how to be professional."

"How to professionally step on people." Carlos countered. "How many of those _empresas sin escrúpulos_ are run by men who dress like professionals?"

"Its not that black and white, Carlos." She said gently.

"So all that stuff about looks not mattering, how to not judge a book by its cover, was it just little fairy tales?" Carlos asked. "Like those stories about Apollo killing the dragon Python?"

Deborah didn't say another word for the rest of the night.

The next day at school was pretty much uneventful, except for the fact he wasn't the only new student. Two others had transferred and seemed to be related. They introduced themselves as Jacob and Artie Gallezi and claimed to be cousins, but they acted more like brothers.

Jacob had a lean build to him and had deeply tanned skin. Carlos guessed he could be handsome in a rugged sort of way, at least that's the feeling he got from the scar over his right eye. He was surprised how he was let in school with his long silky chestnut brown hair which matched a well trimmed mustache and goatee. Most schools had strict rules about proper hair and facial styles and yet, there he was.

Artie was also lean, but at least Jacob had muscle to balance it out, and it was only more apparent since Artie was a few centimeters taller. He also had a scar over his eye, but it was on his left. He also wore sunglasses which he explained was to conceal an eye condition and while Jacob's hair was against regulation, Artie's obliterated the regulations. The teacher had commented on that at least, but Artie politely explained it was purely natural and there was nothing he could do.

Carlos wasn't sure he believed them. He couldn't help notice some holes in their stories. Jacob seemed too old to still be in high school, but Carlos guessed he could have been held back or that he was big for his age. They claimed to both be from Brazil, a fact that was not lost on the girls, but their spanish didn't seem to match up. At least Jacob's didn't. Jacob was clearly speaking the mexican dialect while Artie was more believably using the Argentinian dialect. In the end, he figured it was none of his business and didn't ask any questions.

As fate would have it, both Carlos and the Gallezi kids had the same schedule of classes and unless he was over thinking things, they seemed to never leave his side. For one reason or another, either Jacob or Artie would be right there. In the bathroom, at lunch, and especially during classes. He wanted to ask, but he finally got the chance during _gimnasio_.

Carlos learned that the old futbol coach had suddenly quit and the substitute was an ex-military drill sergeant. His shirt was clearly in danger of tearing and Carlos wondered if the coach was aware or had done it knowingly to show off his muscles. He was also tall, about two meters, and had a permanent scowl plastered on his face like nothing in the world would change it. He was intimidating even the Gallezis made sure not to cross him, but Carlos noticed Artie whispered to Jacob when the coach passed them with a clipboard as he took attendance and they both began watching him like a pair of hawks.

"Now!" bellowed the coach. "You may call me Maestro Ángel." He began walking past them, much like drill sergent at boot camp. "Not _maestro_, not _señor _Ángel. Maestro Ángel! Am I understood?"

"Yes, Maestro Ángel!" The class responded.

"Good!" Maestro Ángel motioned to a large box. "Now instead of playing your precious little futbol, we'll be trying something more . . ." He paused until he found the right word and Carlos had seen horror films less sinister. "Fun!"

In a matter of minutes, Carlos and everyone was holding large red rubber balls.

"A close friend in America told me about a game they like to play." Maestro Ángel grinned. "They call it dodgeball." Carlos did not like the way he was grinning " The rules are easy. Players on both team throw the balls at each other. If you're hit then you're out simply as that."

Artie raised a hand.

"Yes?" Maestro Ángel looked at his clipboard. "Gallezi, did I speak too fast?"

"What about if you catch the before it hits the ground?" Artie asked. "That means whoever threw it is out and one from you're team come back in right?"

"Trust me, Gallezi." Maestro Ángel smirked. "That won't be happening."

The doors to the gymnasium suddenly opened and about six students came in. They all were clearly army recruits. The way they filed in and stood like erect statues. Their clothing was also a dead giveaway, white tanktops with sneakers and black shorts that had the Spain national emblem

"You'll be playing against them." said Maestro Ángel. "That way everyone plays at their best."

Maestro Ángel waited until the army recruits each had a ball before he blew a whistle, signaling the start of the game.

It erupted in chaos as Carlos and his team were either taken off their feet or dropped their balls, doing their best to not look like targets. Carlos looked as Jose curled up into a ball while Iago ducked behind him. The only ones that seemed to be perfectly calm, or not roaring with laughter, were the Gallezi brothers. In fact, they seemed to be having a serious debate in Portuguese as red blurs whizzed past them like bullets during a battle.

"Hey!" Carlos shouted. "Stop talking and — "

A ball slammed into him like a cannonball. He sat down hard and he was vaguely aware of the other team exploding into laughter. His eyesight went fuzzy. Carlos had the air knocked out of him once and this was easily worse.

Carlos was aware of Artie kneeling by him as he shouted to the other team. "Hey, you could kill someone!"

More laughter which was cut short by the lights shutting down and leaving the gymnasium almost pitch dark. Carlos wasn't sure, but he thought he heard the screech of a hawk before the lights went out. He was also partly aware that he was being dragged behind the bleachers on either side of the gym. It took him a moment but he managed to sit up. His chest was very sore, but he was certain nothing was serious. Jacob looked worried, but Artie just seemed annoyed.

"What the hell was that?" Carlos exclaimed.

The brothers ignored them.

"Okay, I need a good look." Artie said.

"To see what we're dealing with?" Jacob asked.

"And give you a chance to reach the locker room for our weapons." Artie said. "We need to draw their fire. Give them a target."

"How?!" Jacob demanded.

"You know how I always have brilliant ideas? Artie asked

"Uh, no?" Jacob looked at him confused. "Your point?"

"That's about to change!" Artie grinned.

Faster than Carlos though possible, Artie dove out and rolled to his feet. He jumped up and down, waving his arms like he was doing jumping jacks, and to top it all off he was shouting.

"Look at me!" He bellowed. "I'm a target!"

Carlos yelped as four balls crashed around Artie. They were not the red rubber ones they were using minutes ago, but large bronze ones that had hole drilled into them as they spat fire. They also seemed to be packed with explosives since they exploded whenever they made contact, leaving holes to the outside.

Artie did not stop as he dove to his left and on top of the bleachers, flaming cannonballs missing him by inches. He even continued taunting and laughing at their bad aim.

"He's insane!" Carlos yelped.

"Maybe." Jacob peaked to see everyone was focused on Artie. "But in his defense, I did drop on his head when he was a baby." He grabbed Carlos and pulled him. "Come on, time to even things out."

Carlos carefully followed Jacob to the locker room door, keeping low and moving quietly. He wasn't sure what he was seeing. The army recruits were tall when they had entered, but now they were over three meters of bulging muscles and sharp teeth. Maestro Ángel had also changed and was clearly the leader as well as the largest.

"Would it kill you to hold still?!" He demanded as Artie effortlessly slid under a flaming cannonball.

"Are you seriously asking that?!" Artie chuckled as did something akin to a ballerina twirl. "Because you can't be that stupid."

Jacob tapped Carlos and they resumed sneaking to the locker room.

Once inside, Carlos followed Jacob to a locker which he immediately began fiddling with the dial.

"What are those things?" Carlos asked, keeping his voice low.

"I'd say Laistrygonians, but they're not really that aggressive." Jacob answered just as low. "Maybe distant cousins or something."

"Laistry-what?"

"Giants." Jacob threw open the locker and began ruffling through it. "Man-earting giants."

"They'll kill him." Carlos said, fighting the urge to scream. "They'll kill Artie."

"I wouldn't worry too much about him." Jacob threw on a long golden trench coat and fitted bronze gauntlets over his hands. "The only way they'll touch him is if he wants them to." Jacob handed him something. "Here, you'll need this, _hermano_."

At first Carlos thought Jacob had handed him golden slingshot, but then it began to grow in his hand. The handle stretched and the two uprights grew farther apart. In second he was holding, what at best he could think of as, a standing slingshot. It still had the standard Y shape, but the head was a semicircle with seven rubber strips attached to the pouch instead of the standard two.

"_En el nombre de Dios_ . . ." Carlos whispered. He turned to catch a small pouch Jacob had tossed him.

"Not exactly useful without something to shoot." Jacob pulled out a slim bronze tube from the locker with a leather should strap. "Come on, I'd say Artie's had enough fun."

Carlos and Jacob carefully entered the gym again

The giants had their backs to them, but they had also cornered Artie. Still, they couldn't seem to hit and Carlos hoped they realize they could simply rush Artie and beat him the old fashioned way. Carlos guessed they must be counting on Artie tiring or someone getting a lucky shot in. He had already had some close calls. His shirt was full of charred hole, some of them still smoking, and he was breathing hard. Not to mention his shoes laid a meter to the size, clearly melted to the ground which filled the air with the smell of burning rubber.

Carlos wondered what happened to the rest of the class and hoped they had escaped when the lights went out and Artie did the excellent job of distracting and irritating the giants on focusing on him.

Jacob drew two golden boomerangs from inside his coat and motioned for Carlos to use the sling shot. He reached into the little pouch and slipped a little bronze ball the size of a marble into the sling. Once he did, the marble grew to the size of a rock. He looked at Jacob who gave him a thumbs up. He nodded and pulled back, surprised how little resistance he felt.

Artie saw his reinforcements had arrive and held his hands up.

"Giving up?" barked Maestro Ángel.

"Not at all." Artie made a pair of finger guns and pointed them. "I'm warning you."

"Warning us?" Maestro Ángel and his crew laughed. "You're defenseless."

"I am a lethal killing machine." Artie continued. "It was a secret Olympian experiment by Athena and Hephaestus themselves." Artie gulped. "They did stuff to me, spooky stuff. They turned me into a dangerous telekinetic. As the ancient Tibetan Philosophy states, Don't start none, won't be none!"

Maestro Ángel picked up a cannonball. "Only one you're going to get out this.

Artie smirked and pretended to fire, "Kerpow!"

Jacob threw his boomerangs and Carlos watched as the silently sailed into the necks of two giants. They just sail into their necks, they sailed into and kept going. They crumbled into dust hardly and instant later.

As they all reacted to two of their comrades crumbling, some actually looking at Artie like the culprit, Carlos fired. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn he had just fired a gun. If he had blinked he would of have missed it. The moment he was realizing the tension and the next half second the projectile was a millimeter from the giant's head. The marble had also continued growing as it shot towards the giant. At first it was the size of a small rock, but before it connected it was the size of a football with a lethal force propelling it forward.

In the blink of an eye, Carlos fitted another marble and fired at another giant as Jacob caught one his boomerangs and threw it again. The giants, upon seeing Artie was not telekinetic, charged them. With two down, a third charged as Carlos fumbled for another shot. On pure reflex, he gripped his long staff like slingshot and swung as hard as he could at the giant's feet. Like a kid with his shoe laces tied, the giant fell face first and shook the ground a bit. Carlos fitted another shot and fired while the giant rubbed his face a groaned in pain.

He turned to see Jacob's boomerang miss his third giant. Carlos reached into his pouch to help, but Jacob smiled and made yanking motioned toward's himself. Suddenly, the boomerang changed course and shot like rocket towards him. Unfortunatly for the giant, the boomerang had to qualms going through him to reach Jacob's hand.

In about two minutes, Jacob and Carlos had killed three giants each which only left Maestro Ángel.

"You think I'm scared!?" He demanded and a club appeared each hand. "Come on, fight me!"

Jacob threw the little bronze tube at him. Maestro Ángel ducked and laughed, but Carlos saw Artie catch it and a long silver bow appeared in his hands. Artie then drew an arrow from the tube, a quiver Carlos realized, and aimed.

"I'm going enjoy hearing you scream as I eat your organs while you watch." Maestro Ángel laughed manically. "Then, I'm going to stuff your head and mount them on the wall of my cave. And any skin left over I'm going to cure and — "

"Hey, Maestro Ángel!" he barked.

Maestro Ángel turned just in time to catch an arrow between his eyes and explode into a cloud of dust.

"When you have to shoot, shoot!" Artie quoted The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly. "Don't talk."

"Always gotta go for the dramatic." Jacob huffed.

"Carlos, we need to talk." Artie said.

"What about?"

"For starters?" Jacob led him to the locker room.

"What do you know about your father?" Artie asked.


	4. Cochran

Colin Cochran's morning was normal as any other sixteen year old in the fine city of Dublin.

His alarm clock chirped unwelcome in his ear and he gave it a hard slap to shut it up. With a groan, he sat up and surveyed his room. His weights were strewn about floor along with empty protein drink cans and the occasional beer can stuffed with fag butts whenever he invited the mates over and they smoked. He noticed the carpet was in dire need of cleaning and he made a mental note to remind his mother, Molly Cochran, when she got around to doing the housework. His walls had that fake wood paneling and was decorated with posters of Sylvester Stallone in Rocky and Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler.

He growled at what was hanging on the back of bedroom door, an orange jumpsuit with Community Payback written across the back in black letters.

It was bad enough he had community service for laying out some bloke who was dumb enough to think he could take Colin "Iron Fist" Cochran in a back alley fist fight, but did really have to make him wear something so stupid and humiliating? He probably shouldn't have mouthed off to the kid's parents about how they had named him Beverly and insinuated they 'had to make a call" when he was baby. Maybe then, they would have been opened to the idea of dismissing the broken nose and five missing teeth as rough housing.

His mother was sipping coffee and reading the newspaper when he finally came down. He didn't say a word, mostly because her boyfriend Jeremy was there too since he had just spent the night.

"Hey, Colin." Jeremy greeted.

Colin fixed him a stare that would have sent a T-Rex shrieking like a little girl. There was something he didn't like about him. He couldn't put his finger on it, but his gut told him Jeremy wasn't all hot cross buns and Easter eggs. He had barely gone out with her for two weeks and had already moved in, much to Colin's protests.

"Anything interesting, mum?" Colin asked as he poured himself a mug of coffee.

"Just some old couple swearing they saw two boys on a motorcycle." Molly said skeptically. "Apparently one of the boys was wearing one of the long trench coat and the other was shirtless."

"Probably best they keep that between them and their internet service provider." Colin sipped his coffee. "You learned that the hard way, didn't you, Jeremy?"

"Just give it a rest." Molly sighed. "Is it too much to ask?"

"What?" Colin demanded. "I just asked ya if anything interesting happened?"

"It's that kind of talking that landed me with hospital bill for the poor child." Molly snapped.

"How is poor Beverly?" Jeremy asked, sounding overly concerned.

"Oh, that git is fine." Colin waved a hand dismissively.

"Colin?" Molly warned.

"You know, apart from the whole face thing." Colin shrugged.

"You're lucky the judge only gave you community service." Jeremy remarked. "That and paying his hospital si getting off easy."

"I'd hardly call wearing that tacky jumpsuit easy." Colin sneered. "As for paying, that was bloody unfair."

"How so?" Molly demanded.

"If ya poke a sleeping bear and it rips ya a new one, no one is gonna blame the bear." Colin said. "They're gonna blame the guy for doing somethin' mental and if he's not too thick, the doc's bill is help that sink in."

"Just like his father." Molly muttered, but Colin saw her trying to hide a smile. "If only he was here."

"Then maybe he'd see his handiwork." Jeremy said.

"Colin," Molly switched to Colin. His father was one of his buttons. "Why don't hurry up and catch the bus. You don't want to be late."

"I think I have a minute, mum." Colin set his cup down and asked, his eyes full of warning. "What were ya saying, Jeremy? Something about me Da's handiwork?"

"If your father hadn't been a coward then — "

Jeremy's words and breath, and nearly a large part of his jaw, was forced back into his throat when Colin's fist connected with his chin.

Normally a boxer, professionally or otherwise, learns early on that the gloves aren't meant to cushion a blow. They're meant to safeguard against breaking one's fingers when striking thier opponent. Despite what is seen in movies, your hand is going to shatter well before the other person's jaw. Unless you were Colin Cochran whose punches were a local legend that rightly earned him the nickname Iron Fist. It had been first coined when during one of his matches, Colin's opponent had been wearing brass knuckles under his glove and Colin still won. The newspaper claimed that not only Colin had an iron jaw, but an iron fist to back it up.

Jeremy had learned that the hard way as Colin's punch actually lifted him off the ground slightly and he landed hard on the kitchen table, taking it with him on the way down.

"Jeremy!" Molly rushed to him and snapped at her son. "You've broken his nose."

"Maybe there's more to Beverly than I thought." Colin pulled on a coat. "It took three for him."

A quick bus ride and Colin was the neighborhood community center where he was to receive his orders for community service. He stuffed his coat in one of the few lockers that still had a door, making sure to keep any valuables on him, and went outside with four more state deemed delinquents.

One was a girl about his age. She was blond and sort of plump. Colin she could have been cute if she took off the first three layers of make-up and did something about her hair, but would just have to make do since she was the only girl. Maybe he'd buy her pint and see where things went. He might need six himself, but who's counting?

There was some quiet looking kid. He reminded Colin of those pictures of serial murderers when they were young, too well dressed and groomed. If someone had whispered to Colin that the neighborhood pets had gone missing, he'd say to check that kid out. He wasn't outright scared of the kid since he was about as thin as a reed, but he still gave him a weird feeling.

Then there was Cappy. They had shared a couple of classes and went to the same school, but Colin never cared enough to talk to him so forget learning his real name. There wasn't anything really that set him apart of the hundreds of kid like him, except that he had a serious and violent temper. He was called Cappy because since grade school, he always wore a cap and the fastest way to blow was to knock his cap of his head.

Finally there was the foreign kid. He didn't come in wearing his orange jumpsuit like the others had. He came in, his long chestnut brown hair tied back, wearing jeans and a long golden brown duster that ended at his knees. Instead of trainers, what England and Ireland called sneakers, he wore what Colin instinctively knew as army regulation combat boots and they had certainly seen some action. He also seemed a bit older, or at least that was the facial hair combined with the scar over his right eye made him guess.

Colin and the rest were waiting for the probation worker, leaning against the railings that stopped anyone from taking a falling into the water below just outside of the community center. Colin wondered why they'd make him do. Probably scrubbing the graffiti of the side of the building or picking up trash under the flyover.

The probation did show up and began giving a speech, sounding bored like he was going through the motions. He was thick, but not fat. He seemed like a high school football coach who had put on a few pounds. He work a plain shirt and gray sweatpants. Colin was barely awake when he introduced himself, Tony something.

"This is it. This is the chance to be positive. To make a real change for yourselves. You can help and make a difference in their lives. That's what community service is all about." He began. "There are people out there who think you're scum. You have an opportunity to prove them wrong."

"Yeah, but what if they're right?" Colin turned to Cappy."No offense," Colin then spoke to Tony, motioning to Cappy. "But I think some people are just born criminals."

"Ya looking ta get stabbed?" Cappy warned.

"Ya see my point there?"

Then the girl's phone rang. She picked up while Tony ignored Colin's ribbing. "Hello? Just doing my community service."

"It doesn't matter what you've done in the past." Tony continued and noticed the girl. "Hey! Ellie!"

"Boring! What'd ya expect?" Ellie continued. "Just some blathering about helping people."

"Hello? Excuse me, I'm still talking here."

Ellie took the phone from her ear. "I thought you finished."

"You see my lips moving?" Tony point to his face. "That I'm means I'm still talking."

"Yeah, but ya coulda been yawning . . ." Colin pointed. "Chewing . . ."

"End the call." Tony ordered. "Hang up!"

"I'll call ya later." Ellie angrily stuffed the phone in her pocket.

"Oy, you're pretty quiet there, weird kid." Colin laughed. "Come on, squeak up!"

"This ain't gonna work fer me." said Cappy. "Can I move to a different group?"

Then the foreign kid demanded. "What makes you think you're better than us?"

Everyone paused.

"What's that accent?" Colin chuckled.

"That fer real?" Ellie smirked.

"You trying to say something?" He demanded.

"That's just noise." Colin looked to Tony and tapped his ear. "Are we supposed to understand that?"

"Understand that?" He made an unmistakable one finger gesture. "Clear enough for you?"

"Well, look at that." Colin made a face of mock impressed and put an arm around Cappy, knocking his cap off. "I think we're gonna get along fine."

"That's it!" Cappy snapped and pushed Colin. "Ya did that on purpose, ya ape."

Then, not giving Colin the chance to respond, Cappy charged him. Colin merely stepped to the side and let the railing knock the wind out of Cappy. What Colin hadn't planned was Cappy flipping over the railing and falling into the water below. Colin shrugged and picked up Cappy's cap and tossed it to him. He turned to see everyone staring at him.

"What are you all taking the piss?" He asked. "I didn't lay a hand on him."

After fishing out Cappy and giving a stern halfhearted warning to Colin, they all received their orders for community service, painting benches.

Tony excused himself, saying he had to make an important phone call and his mobile had died. Without meaning to, or caring, Colin paired up with the foreign kid. They painted, both of them not really noticing they were dripping paint all over the floor.

"I know you." The foreign kid said.

"Naw, ya don't." Colin responded.

"You're that boxer kid." The kid pushed. "You messed up big time."

"Noticed yeah?" Colin motioned to their surroundings. "Thanks fer reminding me."

"They ban you?"

"No." Colin continued painted. "Thought they would, but someone up top convinced 'em to give me a slap on the wrist." Colin spared the kid a glance. "Ya seem to know me pretty good. Honestly, can't say I blame ya. What's your name?"

"Jacob." He held out a hand. "Jacob Gallezi."

"So judging from that tosser of an accent." Colin motioned to Jacob. "You ain't from around here."

"Nope." Jacob shook his head. "I was born in Rio, but I'm from America."

"Rio, huh?" Colin paused."That's the Spanish word fer river, right?"

"Yeah, but it's city in Brazil." Jacob explained. "South America."

"Never learned a lick of Spanish meself." Colin shrugged.

"Brazil speaks Portuguese."

"Let's not split hairs." Colin chuckled. "Point is, french is probably gonna be more useful. France is just ferry and hop over the Channel."

"Chanel?"

"The English Channel." Colin rolled his eyes. "Jeez, I know everyone makes takes shot at your schooling, but don't make it that easy."

"I'll keep that in mind." Jacob went back to painting. "So if they didn't ban you, what are you doing now."

"There's some local tourney." Colin answered proudly. "Been going on fer months since they can only have a match or two a day. Fifty of the best coming from as far as Limerick. Winner gets a heaping prize of ten-thousand pounds cash."

"You still in?"

"Of course!" Colin stood up and made jabbed at the air. "That's my ticket to goin' pro. Gonna take the cash and pay fer a boxing school with ties to the pro circuit. Who knows? Maybe a scout'll be in the crowd."

"But you still have to win." Jacob said. "Don't they have a second place prize?"

"No, they don't have a second place prize or something." Colin mocked. "Don't matter. That cash is as good as mine."

"I'm sure you will." Jacob asked. "So what got ya into boxing?"

"Why ya so curious?" Colin's eye narrowed.

"Honestly?" Jacob shrugged. "I'm just trying to pass the time. So what was it, your dad was a boxer or something?"

"No." Colin hesitated. "Not 'im"

Jacob frowned. "Daddy issues?"

"Hey!" Colin pointed a finger. "Don't play psycho annalist with me."

"Is that why you want to go pro?" Jacob kept pushing. "So he sees you on the TV winning a championship. To show you didn't need him?"

"That's it!" Colin grabbed Jacob by the front of his shirt and held him up. "One more word about me Da and ya gonna look real funny trying to talk without any teeth!"

Then someone came up, but it wasn't Tony.

A hawk with red tail feathers flutter down and landed on the bench Colin and Jacob were painting. It screech and Colin couldn't help but look.

"Ya seeing what I'm seeing?" Colin asked.

"What do you see?" Jacob asked and Colin thought Jacob was eager for an answer. "A sparrow?"

"What are ya as thick as two short planks?" Colin demanded.

"What now?"

"I'm not sure what yer seeing, but I see one those hunting birds. What do ya call 'em? Eagle? Hawk?" Colin gazed at the bird's talons. "And it's got a note tied to it."

"Take it." said Jacob. "Unless you're scared of a little bird."

Colin shot him a look, saw he was still holding Jacob off the ground, and threw him down. "Then why don't ya take it?" Colin saw the bird stick its leg out for him. "I ain't that thick."

Colin saw the paper was sealed with candle wax and had strange writing written on it. It was just random line and symbols that seemed to dance around. Colin had kept it a well known secret he was dyslexic.

"What dose it say?" Jacob asked.

Colin shook his head and focused at the strange writing.

_Γροθιά του σιδήρου_

Then suddenly it clicked and he said, "Iron Fist." He cocked his head, not understanding how he knew that. "It's fer me."

He unrolled the paper and saw it only had a single line with the same writing. He had never seen that writing anywhere, but he was sure the front had said Iron Fist as sure as he was that his name was Colin.

Πόσα πραγματικά γνωρίζουμε για τον πατέρα σου;

Like before he mentally stopped the symbols to stop dancing around and stared at them. Little by little, each word clicked into his head like it was something he had know all his life.

"How much do you really know about your father?" Colin finally said aloud and looked at Jacob. "What are ya playing . . ."

Jacob was gone. Not even the paint brush and can of paint he had been using was there. It was like Colin hadn't just spoke with him second ago.

" . . . at." Colin called to the others. "Oy, you lot! Anyone see where Jacob went?"

"Who's Jacob?" asked Ellie. "Yer boyfriend?"

"Better than ya could hook." said Colin. "I'm serious. I'm talking about that foreign kid with the funny accent. About this tall with long hair and scar on his eye?" Colin gestured. "He was with us when that Tony bloke showed up."

"You are hilarious!" Cappy laughed. "Keep taking that medication. I tell ya, it's working."

"Or maybe one too many hooks to the jaw?" offered Ellie.

They all shared a hilarious laugh, including the quiet kid, and Colin about to send Beverly three room mates in the hospital when Tony came back from his phone call.

"What's going on?" Tony looked around for signs of trouble. "It's painting benches. You've barely been at it an hour."

"Colin's gone mental." Cappy laughed.

"Yeah," agreed Ellie. "Says there was some foreign kid here with us and just disappeared."

"Really?" Tony looked worried. It wouldn't be the first time a kid started having hallucinations with all medication they took these days.

"Forget it." Colin forced a smile and hoped they bought it. "Just jokin'. Almost had you lot. Maybe there's hope fer ya yet."

Colin passed the rest of day very quietly, very unlike him. He just couldn't comprehend how Jacob had just disappeared. He guessed he could have slipped away while he was trying to read the note and the rest were busy painting, but how could erase the very memory of him from the others? He thought about it the entire bus ride home and figured someone was paying a prank on him. Just pay the probation worker to act as if nothing was wrong and hand the rest a couple of quid to do the same.

He let himself inside and deciphered a note his mother had left saying that she was taking Jeremy to the hospital and then home. He glanced at the clock and figured she was either was punishing him by not leaving something to eat or had decided to stay the night at Jeremy's. Either way, he had to make his own dinner.

Colin had never been much of cook, so he picked the phone and ordered a pizza with all the hearty meaty toppings he liked. He ate it all and washed it down with a couple of cokes. After catching the end of a football match, Manchester United surrendering to Barcelona in overtime, he made his way to the basement.

Colin liked to call it his Wreckroom. He called it that because it was filled with all the equipment he needed to keep his body fit so he could properly wreck someone. He jogged on the treadmill for an hour to burn off the pizza and cokes. He then wrapped his hand in boxer's tape and had at the punching bag that hung int he corner to give his arms a workout. Once his arms felt like they weighed like a ton each, he practiced on the speedbag. He continued deep into the night, ignoring the burning in his limbs, switching from machine to free weights to punching bag until he glanced at the clock and saw it was three in the morning. He had never gone so long without stopping, not even breaking for water. In the past, he could last until midnight and hardly have the strength to climb the stairs to his room.

He felt tired, but exhausted like he expected, as climbed the stairs and saw him mother still hadn't come home. He frowned and climbed the stairs to his room. He was sweaty from long workout, but decided to climb into bed and shower in the morning.

He laid there, glancing at the unmoving ceiling fan, and thought. He didn't do this much, dwelling on things, but then again thing hardly happened that made him think. Twice that day he thought about his father. First was when Jeremy called him a coward for not staying with his mother. Colin wasn't sure what made angry. When he was old enough to understand his father wasn't around, he liked to imagine him as an older and tougher Colin. He guessed some part of him still liked to think that way.

Colin turned to his side and considered the message on the hawk. "How much do you really know about your father?" He asked aloud.

All he knew of the man was what his mother had told him. He was an ex-military of some sort that had gotten discharged for striking a superior officer. Molly said it was his carefree attitude and fearless laugh that she liked to the most. She once saw him take out three men in a bar that had made a pass at her and beat them senseless while laughing like he was having the time of his and a mug of guinness in hand. He had apparently made his living as an amateur boxer. He could have pro, but Molly said he was too headstrong and had a problem with authority. A real rebel. A typical badboy.

But Molly refused to tell Colin his name. Always she ever said was that it wasn't a common name, but then again he wasn't a common person by any stretch. She also kept any photographs of him in a secret lockbox at the bank. She said he had his proud, but tough, handsome face with a strong chin. Colin also had the same build as his father,that is to say, a giant on steroids with limbs as powerful and thick as other's entire bodies, and like Molly hinted at this morning, Colin had his father's attitude and temper.

The next morning Colin forgot everything that had happened the day before. The day had finally come. His day. The day of the final match of tournament. Colin had bested all eleven opponents thrown at him from all over the country and not single one had won like he had. He had followed knockout after knockout after knockout, with hardly a bruise or a drop of his blood touching the ring floor. If he won, not only would he have his prize money and promising future, but he would have set a record in the tournament's decade long run. That record would just be icing on the cake when he was considered for sponsors.

He practically leaped from his bed and hopped in the shower. After picking some clothes that looked clean enough, he rushed downstairs for a hearty breakfast. His mother always had prepared a large hearty breakfast enough to feed three just for him before his matches.

"Oy,Mum!" He cried with excitement. "Fire up the stove 'cause I am need it all to — "

The kitchen was empty.

Molly wasn't at the stove frying eggs or bacon filling the air the sound of sizzling. The table hadn't been set with tea and toast. The coffee machine wasn't perking, leaving the air empty of the tantalizing aroma. The sink was empty of dirty pots and pans as was the oven empty of fresh bread. The kitchen had been like he left it the night before when he ordered a pizza.

" — beat the bloke's jaw into the ground." He finished, shocked.

He picked up the phone that hung on the wall and called his mother's mobile. Then he heard it ring and saw it was sitting on the kitchen counter. Molly had forgotten it when she rushed Jeremy to the hospital. He picked up the mobile and flicked through the call history and found Jeremy's number.

His thumb hovered over the send button. What was he supposed to say? Demand that she drove over and not only make him breakfast, but drive him to the tournament? He knew his mother was lenient, but to a point. She was probably still mad at him for breaking Jeremy's nose. He looked at the table and saw a large crack on the edge. Okay, so Jeremy's nose and the table.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal and made some coffee and toast.

Once he finished his breakfast, he grabbed a sports bag filled with his gear and took the first bus to William's Boxing and Fitness center on Foley Street that was just off Amiens Street.

Mick's Tournament was not an official tournament that large companies or boxing schools paid for, but over the years it had gain reputation. So much so that to win was the same as winning even the largest tournament held in stadiums, for the amateur league at least. It was often considered the final step to reaching the professional level. Often competitors joked the prize money was to pay for the huge party the winner was bound to throw because he had been approached by several scouts offering contracts before he had even changed into his street clothes.

As large as the tournament was, it was relatively unknown to the general public. It was more meant retired boxers and trainers to talk of old fights and pick up the occasional training or fight technique. So Colin wasn't surprised to not see a crowd outside the building or a screaming audience inside on the benches surrounding the ring.

Colin made his way to the locker room and changed into his gear. He pulled up a pair of red shorts to his waist and slipped on regulation boots of the same color. Then he wrapped a hand in white tape and slipped one of his lucky gloves. Colin deemed them lucky because he had been wearing them when he earned the name Iron Fist. He liked to think of those old stories of Greek demigods that carried famous weapons, like Hercules and Orion with thier clubs.

As he struggled to wrap his other hand, something his mother usually helped with, he heard a conversation on the other side of the lockers. Oen of the voices sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"I still say you're an idiot." complained the voice. "If he's a son of Ar — "

"If I could take The General in a real fight," snapped another voice. "Then I think I can take — "

"That was with me, Percy, Zoë, and your mother backing you up." reminded the familiar voice. "Even then, you almost di — "

"Which is why I'll be fine." assured the other voice. "This won't be anything like that."

"And this won't be like Rocky!" It sounded like he was worried. "Artie, you said yourself Clarisse once broke one of her brother's jaw and she wasn't even paying attention. What's going to happen when one of his kids comes at you with everything he's got?"

"That's exactly why I'm doing this and not you. No offense, but even _HE_ said I can take a hit better than most." said who Colin guessed was Artie. "What other way can you think of to make sure? Hand him a cellphone and see what happens? We have no idea how many of them are here." Artie sighed. "Look, Jacob, even if we had a better plan we don't have time."

"Jacob?" Colin whispered and stood. He began walking around the lockers. "Couldn't be . . ."

By the time Colin turned the corner, he caught a glimpse of a white robe trailing as whomever was wearing left the locker room. Colin stood there and anger boiled in him. Before he knew he doing, Colin was in front of Jacob and shoved against the lockers, hard.

"What the bloody hell are ya doing here?!" he demanded.

"I-I-I don't know what you're talking about!" snapped Jacob once he recovered.

"Don't play daft with me!" Colin slammed both fist on either side of Jacob's head. "What was that Houdini act at the community center?"

"Would all participants please report to the ring" said a voice over a loudspeaker. "The match will start in two minutes."

"Bollocks." Colin shot deadly look at the speaker in the he turned to Jacob. "Lucky fer you, I got a match to win. I'll finish you later. You can count on that." Colin shoved him hard against the locker before leaving.

Unlike his opponent, Colin wasn't wearing one of those brightly colored robes. Those were for when his matches were televised all over Ireland, not some tournament the people didn't even know existed. Still, that wasn't to say the seat around the ring were empty. Almost every time Colin had a match, they were empty, but now Colin had a small taste of what it would be like to fight while the crowd roared with excitement. As he walked he scanned the audience, scouts in suits along with retired boxers and trainers mostly.

He was surprised to see his mother wasn't there. A lump formed in his throat. She had gone to every single one of his matches, no matter what he did and how mad she was with him. She had said countless times, if he made it to the final match, she wouldn't miss it for the world.

Colin pushed it aside as he entered the ring.

"Nice of you to join us." said Mickey Kelly, the owner of the gym and the referee. "Would've been a shame fer you to come this far and be late."

"But better fer the my opponent." Colin smirked.

"That's the spirit." Mickey pointed to the corner. "When you're ready."

Colin walked over to the the far east corner on the ring and sat on the stool. He watched his opponent wearing a silvery white robe and shiny silver shorts, both of which matched his boots. Colin couldn't get a good look since he had the hood up, but he saw Jacob whisper in his ear. Colin clenched his jaw as he realized that bird and weird note at the community center was just ploy to get in his head. He had, after all, spent a large portion of the night wondering what it had meant where he could have spent training or sleeping before today's match. It didn't really matter. It just made Colin that much more determined to win.

Colin scanned the audience again, but there was no sign of Molly Cochoran. Some his friends, the few he had from school along with girls, were in there holding up signs that read Iron Fist FTW and such.

A microphone was lowered in the middle of the ring, Mickey had actually went and spent some money for once, and Mickey spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen! Scouts, spectators, and fellow pugilists!

"Oh, get on with it!" shouted someone in the audience.

"Today's match will determine not only the best has Dublin has seen in a long time, but also the winner of the ten-thousand pound purse!" Mickey made show-manly point to Colin. "In this corner, weighing one hundred twenty-five kilos and native son of this fine city of Dublin, with a tournament record of eleven consecutive knockout, Colin "Iron Fist" Cochraaaaaaan!"

Colin stood, jabbing and dodging punches, and he did not try to hide the small the smile his little cheering section was giving him.

"And in this corner, we have a tournament first!" Mickey made a flourish to Colin's opponent. "Weighing ninety kilos, born across the pond from Rio and fighting his way from the land of the rising sun, Artie "Five Fist Fox" Galleziiiii!"

Colin watched as his opponent, noticing Jacob was just outside the ring behind him, as he sprung to his feet and the silvery white robe fell at his feet. Colin would have bet the prize money ten times over that this skinny kid didn't weigh fifty kilos, let alone ninety. To call this Gallezi kid , which Colin figured was Jacob brother or cousin since they had the same last name, a stick was an insult to sticks. He looked so thin he'd probably crack in half from a light sponge bath. Colin's wrist alone was thicker than Artie's thigh.

He was tall though, probably a few centimeters short of two full meters. His hair was strange, midnight black with silvery white highlights tied back into a ponytail, but he wore dark wrap around sunglasses which almost hid a scar over his left eye. Colin had fought opponent that wore glasses before, but they always wore those goggles that looked like what swimmers wore. Like his robe and hair, his shorts and gloves were that same silvery white.

Colin and Artie walked to the middle of ring and Mickey stood between them. "Now, I want a good clean fight. From the both of ya."

"I'll do my best." Colin smirked at Artie. "But no promises. This ain't exactly high tea with the queen." Colin gave Artie a once over. "Then again, maybe it is."

"Then the queen is looking less than her best." Artie smiled at Colin. "Nice dress by the way."

"Look me in the eye and say that!" Colin snapped.

"That's enough." Mickey motioned to the fighters. "Go back to your corners and when the bell rings, come out fighting."

Artie held out his gloves. "Good luck."

Colin hit them with his. "You'll need it."

Artie frowned.

"What?" Colin asked. "Too hard for ya?"

"I was kinda hoping for an Ivan."

"What?"

"You know, Rocky IV?" Artie slipped into a Russian accent. "I must break you."

Colin smiled, despite himself and walked to his corner.

Hardly a minute passed, Colin scanned the audience one last time to see his mother still hadn't arrived, when the bell rang and Colin came out his corner.

Colin was surprised when he saw Artie take four steps toward him and stopped. His hands were up, his right over his sternum and his left out at the same level, but not moving. Colin shrugged and came at him, first with a plain jab from his right that he followed with a hard cross from his left.

Artie leaned back to avoid the jab and Colin sword he smirked, even as took the smallest of steps back to dodge his cross. Colin quickly attempted a strong right hook, strong enough to rattle him from the jaw to his ankle, but Artie slipped under his arm and was behind him before he knew it. Colin turned as fast as he could and jabbed again with his right, turning it into a hook when he missed Artie's head by inches. When he tried again, Artie easily ducked and was behind him again.

He pressed him, jabbing at Artie's chest and then again at his head. Like before, Artie evades his blows and Colin noticed he was still wearing his sunglasses. The cheeky was taunting without so much as a word. Now he was angry. When Artie got behind him again, part of wondering why he had yet to throw a single punch, Colin roared and threw a massive haymaker. As he did, Colin saw a change in Artie and saw he had made a mistake. Quicker than Colin even thought possible, Artie took a single wide step to the side and jabbed three times with the same hand. The first two got him in his eyes which gave Artie enough time for the third to find his nose. Colin staggered, not because they were strong strikes, but because he hadn't expected him to move so fast.

Shaking it off, Colin charged again, but Artie evaded each strike like he had all the time in the world and slipped behind him twice more. Frustrated, Colin threw a hard straight at Artie's face. Colin saw Artie move, but he was too slow to react. The moment his arm was stretched as far as it could, Artie spun toward him to dodge. When the back of his neck was adjacent to the crook of Colin's elbow, Artie's two jab found his face before an uppercut found his the bottom of his chin.

Artie then retreated a couple of steps when Colin staggered. Like before, it wasn't the force, but the shock of how fast his opponent moved. Then Colin remembered what Mickey had called him, The Five Fist Fox. Colin was willing to bet this slippery kid hadn't won his matches by knockouts, he had won by points.

In boxing, Colin was what was referred to as a slugger. A lot of sluggers tend to lack finesse in the ring, but make up for it in raw power, often able to knock almost any opponent out with a single punch. This ability makes them exciting to watch and their fights unpredictable. Most sluggers lack mobility in the ring and may have difficulty pursuing fighters who are fast on their feet, like Colin was having with Artie.

If Colin was a slugger, and based on how Artie never stayed still long enough to be hit, Artie was an out-boxer though any of trainers there would see his technique was horrendous. Out-boxers are known for being extremely quick on their feet which often makes up for a lack of power, like Artie was showing Colin. Since they rely on the weaker jabs and crosses , they tend to win by points decisions rather than by knockout.

But that wasn't all the danger Artie posed for Colin. Artie was so fast and agile, he made a perfect counterpuncher as well.

Counterpunching was where a boxer decides to utilize techniques that require the opposing boxer to make a mistake and then capitalizing on that mistake. Lone jabs of the opposing fighter that miss are often met with swift jabs or quick combinations. It could lead to severe damage if the boxer who utilizes this technique has bad reflexes or isn't quick enough. The problem was that Artie was so fast and Colin so slow everyone of his attacks could be a mistake, and he'd lose the match if he couldn't put Artie down for the count.

Colin had to go for knockout. If the fight lasted the full ten rounds, Artie's points would through the bloody roof and he'd win, but how could he when Artie was dancing around him. Colin couldn't just fight blindly like he had. It was time for a new switched his guard from the orthodoc right handed to the southpaw left handed stance. He had read that boxers who were naturally right handed adopted the southpaw stance to offset thier opponents, Marvin Hagler and Michael Moorer.

Colin hid a smile as he saw Artie raise an eyebrow and hesitated, no doubt expecting something.

Colin charged with jab after jab after jab, Artie bobbing and weaving effortlessly to avoid them. Colin continued pressing him as he forced him back as he added short careful crosses. Once he was sure Artie had picked up on his pattern, Colin went for it. He cocked his left arm back, slowly and delibertly. He saw Artie twitched as he prepared to move. Then, with his arm still cocked back like an archer's bowstring, Colin suddenly jabbed with his right. Colin was taking a risk leaving himself open like that, but it paid off. Artie was not expecting it and sidestepped to avoid it, right into the path of his massive left cross.

Artie's sunglasses went flying and the audience fell silent.

Artie staggered backward and Colin followed up with a barrage of blows. Before he could regain his senses, Colin's cross landed on Artie's cheek. Artie wavered from the force of the blow. Next, Colin threw both of his fists like a cannon and Artie's head whipped back and he stepped back to keep himself from falling. To his credit, Artie attempted his own haymaker. Colin easily blocked and countered with a shot to Artie's chest. Again Artie tried to fight , this time with a feral left hook and again Colin blocked and his jab connected fully with Artie's right cheek. Feeling like a little payback, Colin jabbed twice more and each one connected.

To not leave it to chance, Colin applied more pressure with two powerful hooks to each side of Artie's chest. Surprise Artie was still standing, Colin ducked low and practically jumped into the air with a powerful uppercut under Artie's chin.

Mickey began counting to ten and Colin began walking to his corner to savor the moment and his twelfth straight knockout.

"Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . ." Colin heard Mickey shout.

Then he heard something he wasn't expecting.

"Hey, Cochoran!" Artie shouted through his mouth guard.

Colin turned to see Artie standing, swaying on his feet, but standing. His eyes sent a shock down Colin's spine. They were a pure silvery white with any pupils.

"I didn't hear no bell." Artie smiled and lifted his hands.

Colin couldn't believe it. He lost count how many punks, both in and out of the ring, went down and stayed down after just three hits. Yet, this skinny little stick of kid was on his feet in less than ten secounds after ten monsterous hits.

Colin began walking toward him, doubting he could take another volley like that. "I'm going to bust you up!"

"Go for it." Artie smiled at the line from Rocky III.

Then the was the definite sound of a bell, ding ding.

"That's the bell." said Mickey. "Back to your corners."

Colin shurgged and strutted back to his corner. He still had nine more rounds and severly doubted Artie could stand another round. It looked like the Five Fist Fox wasn't a match for single Iron Fist.

Colin sipped from a water bottle, doing his best not to drop it since boxing gloves aren't exactly to grip things. He watched as Jacob looked over Artie. Colin would never say it aloud, but he was sort of impressed with his opponenet. His chest had severl dark bruises forming and Colin felt the slightest twinge that he might have broken the dumb punk's rib or at least fractured them, but he pushed it away. He knew what he was getting into when he signed up and Colin wasn't about to pull punches.

Jacob took out Artie's mouth guard and it came out bloody and covered in spit. Colin watched Jacob check out his mouth with a little pen light. Colin guessed Jacob didn't like what he saw and was asking, begging practically, to throw in the towel and give the Colin the match. Colid hid a smile as Artie shook his head and thought maybe there was more to this kid than meets the eye.

Jacob rolled his eyes and fit a straw into Artie's mouth. Colin couldn't help how relief spread all over his face and body. It was like all the pain was being washed away with every sip. Colin would have said something, but then he thought how stupid he'd sound saying that Artie was cheating by healing his injuries with some special liquid in his waterbottle. Even if was cheating and that was the case, Colin wasn't worried. He'd just pour on the pressure until he ran out. Colin had been cheated once and he still won. This wasn't any difference.

The bell rang again and both fighters emerged from their conrers

Colin must have selling himself short for once or Artie had been putting on a show. He was swaying his feet and stumbling in small circles as tried maintain his balance. His arms were up, but they also fell and swayed with him like it was an effort to lift them. Even his silvery white eyes were beady like he was concious.

If Colin didn't know any better, he would sworn the kid had just finished a bottle of high grade scotch and couldn't hold it.

Colin charged as Artie staggered to his right with hard hook, but Artie seemed totter just out his reach and countered with punch from an odd angle which Colin observed as a bolo punch. Colin tried again with another hook and Artie seemed to it was time to lose his balnce and stagger backward, arms waving like he was tottering on the edge of cliff. No sooner than Colin's hook past him, Artie regained his composure and spun to his side and Colin recieved a jab on his cheek

Colin wheeled around. "What the bloody hell are ya playing at?!"

"W-what?" Artie's words were slurred. "I figured when in Rome."

"What are ya saying?!" Colin's eye narrowed.

"How many pints did you and your mom have this morning?" Artie smirked. "Just enough for the hang over or just the usual dozen?"

Something in Colin snapped and he charged.

Jabs, crosses, hooks, and haymakers flew like mortar fire as Colin forced Artie against the ropes. Without any room to move, Artie did the only thing he could and covered up as best he could. Colin was in too much of a blind rage to see what Artie was doing which was Ali's rope-a-dope. It involved lying back against the ropes, covering up defensively as much as possible and allowing the Colin to attempt numerous punches. Witht the ropes of ring supporting him, Artie could lean as far as back he wanted. It maximized the distance of the Artie's head from Colin and increased the probability that punches would miss.

The whole point was for Artie to weather the shot that did connect and lure Colin into expending energy while conserving his own. If successful, and Artie could withstand the onslaught or Colin's godlike fury, Colin will eventually tire which might create defensive flaws which Artie could exploit.

Artie sensed Colin begin to slow, which was great since he wasn't sure how much more he could take, and peaked to see. Artie chose the wrong moment and felt rocket slam into his jaw and lift him off his feet. Artie threatened to fall, but Colin wouldn't have it. Another hook from the other side put him right back on his feet just long enough for a wide cross collide with his jaw. Colin let Artie go after two more haymakers and cross before putting all his weight into an overhand strike that sent Artie to the ground like a rock.

Colin was breathing hard and was severly tempted to get on the chancer and just keep going until his arms went numb, but he had calmed down enough that he'd be disqualified. Mickey began the count and Mickey walked away again. He was certain that no human could take all that and still be conscious, and if he was no one would stubborn enough to get up.

"Five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . ." Mickey counted. "Nine . . ."

But Colin didn't hear Mickey say ten.

"Ya gotta be coddin' me." Colin turned.

Artie was on his feet. Bruises covered his face and some blood stained the corner of his mouth as well as the floor where he had been. His right eye was almost swollen shut and his left wasn't much better. His chest heaved and Colin guessed it wasn't the slightest bit pleasant to breath so heavily. To top it all off, Artie was smiling.

"You're a tough lil' bucko aren't ya?" Colin began walking and chuckled. "Bigger cubs than ya have quit from less than have of those digs."

"Probably." Artie agreed still smiling.

"How about we stop farting around and get serious?" Colin put up his hand. "Whadda ya say?"

To his credit, Artie put his hands up too and quoted Rocky III again. "You wanna ring the bell?"

Suddenly a something white flew from behind Artie and landed at Mickey's feet. All three looked to see a pristine white towel and looked to Jacob who nodded to confirm he had thrown it. Mickey made a signal and the bell rang, ending the match with Colin winner by default. Mickey motioned for the microphone to be lowered and lifted Colin's arm.

"And the winner of this year's tournement and a purse of ten-thousand pounds," Mickey announced. "With twelve consective knockouts, a tourement first, Colin 'Iron Fist' Cochoraaaaaaan!"

Despite the cheers and the fact he was well on his way to the pro circut in a few short years, Colin looked back at Artie. Like Jacob the day before, Artie was gone. His silvery white robe wasn't on the floor and Colin saw Jacob was gone as well.

After enjoying the audience cheering, Colin went back to locker room to change into his street clothes. He was in the middle of tying his boots when Molly came from around a corner.

"Mum?" Colin stood. "I though ya wern't coming."

"Sorry I was late." Molly frowned. "Jeremy was acting like the biggest babby I'd ever seen. Ya think ya shattered his jaw and skull the way he was carrying on." Then she hugged her son. "So I gave him some of those pills to help him sleep and got here as fast as I could. I came in just in time to see that skinny kid make a proper fool of ya for the first couple of seconds."

"Well, in my defense." said a voice. "It's never really that hard for his kids."

Molly and Colin turned to see Artie, without so much as scratch and smiling, and Jacob. Artie was wearing jeans and a shirt while Jacob was wearing his long trench coat. Colin eyed the white knife at Artie's hip.

"What now?!" Colin stepped in front of Molly. "A rematch?"

"No." Artie inclined his head to Molly before speaking to Colin. "I wanted to apologize for what I said in the ring. I didn't mean a word of it, but I had make you mad."

"Why?"

Artie looked to Molly. "Ms. Cochoran, did you know who Colin's father really was?"

"What?" Colin turned to his mother. "What the bloody hell is going on about?"

"Yes." Molly nodded. "He told me everything."

"Do you know?" Jacob asked Colin.

"What of it? He was some ex-milatry bloke that got discharged." Then he looked to Molly. "Right, Mum?"

Molly looked away, not sure how to answer.

"There's more to it than that." Artie said. "For starters, your dad never left miltary. You might even say is the military."

"Ya said ya had to make me mad to be sure." Colin asked skeptically. "Be sure of what?"

"You can always count on them being strong." Artie rubbed his jaw and grunted. "But you could give Clarisse a run for her money."

"Who the heck is Clarisse?"

"Your sister. Half sister actually."

"So my mum . . .

"Not your mother." Jacob said gently. "Your father."

"Ares." Artie said firmly. "Greek god of War."

"Bollocks!"

"Here!" Artie tossed something to Colin. "Put these on."

Colin caught a pair of brass knuckles. He eyed Artie skeptically for a moment and slipped them on. "Alright, whats a pair of — "

Suddenly there was a sound of sliding metal. Before he knew it, Colin's entire hand was covered in brightly polished bronze. He flexed his fingers experimentally and found it was like wearing a pair of thin gloves.

"Make a fist." Jacob suggested.

Colin did and saw the glove grow into a boxing glove, but not the kind meant for matches. If he decked someone with this glove, he'd kill someone. If the sheer force of being struck with a cannonball didn't, then the four inch spikes would.

"Your dad isn't one for pulling punches, Colin." Artie smiled approvingly. "He expects his kids to do the same."


	5. Molks

"You seem happy." Artie commented as he pulled his cloak tighter.

"Just thinking of that Sinatra song." Jacob said.

"Which one?"

"A Foggy Day." Jacob began snapping his fingers. "A foooogy daaay. Iiin Londooon toooown . . ."

"Alright, I get it." Artie said before he found himself in musical. "We're suppose to stay incognito, remember?"

"Oh cut me some slack." Jacob protested. "We're basically in the New York of Europe. There's Big Ben, the Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey and Palace." Jacob turned to see Artie had disappeared. "Artie? Artie?"

"How much?" Artie asked.

Jacob turned around to see Artie handing a bill to an old man who gave him something wrapped in old newspaper.

"What the heck is that?" Jacob asked when Artie caught up.

"Fish n' chips." Artie held it out."Kinda like British hotdog."

"A hotdog?"

"Except you know what in it." Artie took a piece. "Try it!"

After spending a week crossing the North Atlantic Ocean on Artie's motorcycle and eating nothing but raw fish, if Jacob didn't see a fish for another ten years it'd be too soon.

"I'll pass." Jacob asked. "So who are we looking for again?"

"Hershel C. Molks." said Artie.

"Don't you think it's weird we actually got a name this time?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that map Athena gave us only showed us where Carlos and Colin were." Jacob reminded. "Yeah, it told us what city they were in and their addresses, but we had no idea who were looking for. What makes this Hershel kid so different?"

"Well, Athena not only gave us the map but probably collected information to make it." Artie said thoughtfully. "And going by the little blinking owl that map used, I can't blame her for showing a little extra attention to her kid. Say what you want, but you can't say she ignores her kids."

"True." Jacob admitted. "I'd still prefer an address though. London's a big city for two demigods to cover."

"Maybe he's suppose to find us?" Artie offered. "If anyone could figure they're not completely human, I'd bet a drachma it'd be a child of Athena."

"Maybe." Jacob frowned. "Or Athena is testing us." Jacob looked around before speaking. "Don't you think it was weird that a sea monster attacked Rodrigo just as we arrived in Portugal? Then there's those Laistrygonians in Carlos' school. Not to mention Colin nearly took your head off."

"I was fine." Artie protested.

"And about to fitted for a wheel chair." Jacob snapped. "The way your head whipped back, I almost thought he snapped your neck."

"He probably could." Artie rubbed his jaw. "Even after all that nectar I still feel sore."

"Let's find a hotel." Jacob suggested. "We've been at it nonstop since we hit Portugal."

"With what money?" Artie asked.

"Don't play dumb with me." Jacob pointed to Artie's belt. "I found that card in your belt when we camped in Black Country Forrest."

"What card?" Artie frowned. "And what were you doing searching through my belt?

"The one that says Olympian Express: Royalty Issue with the name Artemis Raposo Gallezi: King of the Hunt." Jacob shrugged. "I found when you said you were going to find dinner and you had matches in the belt."

"I think it's in case of emergencies." Artie sighed. "I don't know where it came from, but I found it the day after we found Rodrigo and I was searching for money to buy some matches and salt."

"Really?" Jacob raised an eyebrow."You don't where you got a credit card?"

"I think my mom knew something might come up and we'd need money." Artie tossed the oil stained newspaper in a nearby bin. "If that's the case, I don't want her on my case that I went crazy with it when we get back."

"I'm not saying we rent out the queen's palace and use MI6 to find this Hershel kid." Jacob said. "I say we should find some quiet little motel and take a day."

"Doing what?" Artie asked. "Have afternoon tea?"

"You need to rest." Jacob insisted.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Jacob stepped in front of him. "Sometimes I think you're letting all these close calls go to your head."

"Close calls?"

"Thorn when you were eight and again when you were twelve, Ares and Orion on your quest, Percy's quest to find the masterbolt and the golden fleece, Thorn again in Maine, the Talos prototype, Thorn in San Francisco, and Atlas on Mt. Tam." Jacob counted each on a finger. "Someone stupid would start to think they can't be killed after that many brushes with death."

"That what I used to think." Artie admitted. "Then someone told me about the samurai and how they thought.

"Samurai?"

"Yeah." Artie nodded. "They have a saying. _Shinu koto to, anata ga sunde iru koto o kitai_."

"What dose it mean?"

"Expect to die and you will live." Artie said. "It means if you fight like you have nothing to lose, then you won't. Annabeth taught me that. That's why I keep pushing. If I had given up just once while Thorn was chasing me, I wouldn't be here."

"I,uh, um." Jacob struggled to find the words. "I didn't . . . I mean . . ."

"Relax." Artie put a hand on his brother shoulder. "I get what you're trying to say."

"It's just so wrong." Jacob said quietly.

"Wrong?"

"I'm your older brother!" Jacob said a bit loudly. "I was suppose to take care of you when mom died, but how was I suppose to when I couldn't find you?" Jacob motioned up and down. "Now look at you. Not only able to take care of yourself, but King of the Hunt too. You could probably take an army on by yourself."

"If I did," Artie embraced him. "I'd still want you with me." Artie rolled his eyes. "Look, you're the doctor right?"

"Right?" Jacob wasn't sure what Artie was getting at. "At least the closest thing you have to one who'll ignore the fact you don't have insurance."

"And is it your valid medical opinion that I need rest?" Artie asked. "To recover from all the traveling and monster fighting we've been doing?"

"Yes."

"And if I ignored you, I might find myself too tired and wounded to fight?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess it counts as an emergency." Artie smiled. "At least I can tell Artemis that if she asks why we rented a room instead of camping out." Artie then pointed to the fish n' chips vendor just down the block and held out a ten pound note. "Tell him to keep the change if he can point us in the direction of a small motel that tourist don't know about."

"Why don't you go?" Jacob asked.

"Didn't you just say I'm not immortal?" Artie smiled. "I might trip and break my neck."

An hour later, Artie was fuming on a balcony overlooking Hyde Park of a lavish hotel room. The carpet was a thick red layer and decorated with gold and silver designs. The lamp on the hand crafted red mahogany nightstands looked like they were practically made of gold the way they shined. Framed paintings of pristine British landscapes hung on the walls. The television set was a state of the art flat screen plasma sixty inch that was mounted on the wall like one of the paintings. The bed was big enough for four people and was not only soft as a cloud, but had been made with the softest silk Artie had ever touched.

Artie had handed Jacob the credit card while he chatted with an old cabbie about private schools in London so he could rent a small room in the corner of a quiet motel. Instead, Jacob had walked down the block to a high class hotel and booked a suite with a balcony. By the time Artie caught on, it was too late.

Artie turned as the bathroom door opened and Jacob emerged in white robe with the hotel logo embroidered on the chest. Jacob was drying his long hair with a towel and appeared to be on cloud nine. Artie picked up on the scent of expensive soap and more hair care products than he could count.

"Man, did I need that!" Jacob exclaimed as he stretched. "What do you want for dinner?" He picked up a menu of a nightstand. "Hmm, I was kinda hoping to try that bangers and mash I keep hearing about."

"It's just sausages and mashed potatoes." Artie grunted. "Not exactly a five star meal. It'd be like going to the Ritz and asking for a grilled cheese."

"What's up your butt?"

"Nothing." Artie sighed, not wanting to get into it and turned back to watching Hyde Park. "Put me down for two Lancashire Hotpots and a pot of Earl Grey. I could use something to help me sleep."

"I saw a pharmacy down the block." Jacob offered. "I could run down and pick up some that over the counter sleeping pills."

"No." Artie said gently. "No pills. Took me forever to stop kick them."

"What?" Jacob set down the menu. "Kick what?"

"When I first got to camp, I had trouble sleeping." Artie's shoulders sagged. "I'd wake up jumping every time someone coughed, mumbled, or turned over in bed. I wouldn't sleep until the sun came up and gods help anyone that shook me awake and learned the hard way I kept a knife under my pillow." Tobias fluttered down and perched on the railing. Artie rubbed the hawk's head soothingly. "I started sneaking out at night and found a tree to sleep in. For some reason I felt better in a tree surrounded by monsters in the woods than I did in a cabin surround by sleeping campers."

"And you still have trouble sleeping?" Jacob asked.

"I have odd night here or there, but who doesn't now and then?"" Artie shrugged and seemed exhausted. "After that witch incident in the Sea of Monsters, all I really need is a few large plates of hot food and something warm to wash it down."

The next morning, Artie and Jacob began their search for Hershel C. Molks who was somewhere in Jolly Ol' London. Going by what Artie got from the cabbie, they began with the schools. They figured Hershel would have had a couple of accidents that somehow branded him as a trouble maker and leave them a trail until they found his current school. From what Percy had told Artie about his life before discovering he was a demigod and what Annabeth said about other demigods as well, it seemed a good place to start.

St. Bartholmew's School for Boys was a bust and so was the London Film Academy, although Jacob thought Artie was doing his own version of sight seeing. Gower House School's records did not show anyone by the name Hershel C. Molks and neither did the Durston House or Francis Holland School. St. James Junior School also came up with nothing.

Around mid day, they decided to break for lunch at a cafe. Artie used his credit card again and they both sat down for nice lunch. Artie had a thick piece of roast beef with boiled vegetables and mashed potatoes while Jacob had lamb instead.

"Don't you think he could have been home schooled?" Jacob asked between bites.

"Would explain why nearly twelve schools don't have a record of him." Artie admitted. "Still, I think we should keep trying the private schools for today. We'll try the public schools tomorrow and see what happens."

"It'd help if we knew how old he was." Jacob complained. "We've only been looking at high schools. What if he was held back or doesn't start until next year?"

"I don't think he'd ever be held back. This is a son of Athena we're talking about." Artie smiled. "But there's no way of knowing what grade he's in. I'll give you that."

"We just don't have enough information!" Jacob sat down his cup a little hard. "What does she expect us to do? It's not like he's in the phone book."

Artie's hand froze, fork halfway to his mouth. "You checked the phone book?"

"No?" Jacob's eye grew wide. "It seemed so obvious I thought you did."

"It never crossed my mind." Artie stood and laid the card on the table. "There's a payphone in the back. I'll be right back."

An hour later, Jacob and Artie found themselves standing outside a door next to a convenience store called Speedy's with a red canopy.

"Are you sure this is it?" Jacob asked. "Seems kinda obvious."

"There was only two Molks in the phone book. One was Arthur D. Molks, an uncle or something, but this one said Hershel C. Molks." Artie turned and asked. "What do you mean by obvious?"

"We're on Baker Street." Jacob pointed down the block. "122A Baker Street actually and down there is 221B Baker Street. Don't you think its a little strange were looking for a child of Athena down the block from where Sherlock Holmes lived?"

"Sherlock Holmes isn't a real person." Artie reminded him.

"I know." Jacob said. "It just seems off to me that we'd find him here of all the streets in London?"

"The phone book said Hershel C. Molks." Artie repeated.

"But we're looking for a kid." Jacob said. "If this kid is old enough to rent an apartment, don't you think it's weird he's gone so long without trouble?"

"Maybe one of the Molks is his father and he's really Hershel C. Molks the second." Artie offered.

"Then wouldn't the map have said so?"

"That what I thought, but it's the best we have." Artie said. "If this doesn't work maybe we can — "

"Oy!" shouted a gruff voice. "Clear the way you two."

They turned to see two police officers and a man in suit pushing a forth man in handcuffs towards the door. They imdieanty stood aside as the two policemen opened the door and shoved the handcuffed man through before slamming the door shut.

The man in suit stood outside and seemed to be guarding the door. He looked to be about twenty or so and seemed annoyed. His hair was black and cut short, but he hadn't shaved in a few days.

He smiled at the boys. "Sorry about that lads."

"No problem." Artie said politely.

"Here to see Hershel?" asked the man. "The both of ya?"

"Kinda." Jacob answered.

"Well, he'll see ya in a mo." The man held out a hand. "In the mean time, I'm Gregory."

"Artie." Artie shook his hand.

"And I'm Jacob." He did the same.

"You two aren't from around here, are you?" asked Gregory. "America if I had to guess from your accents."

"Could you excuse us for a moment?" Artie smiled politely.

"Sure." Gregory returned the smile.

Artie led Jacob a bit away and said in Portuguese. "I_'m going to see if I can sneak in_."

"_Why_?" Jacob asked in Portuguese. "_He said he'll be with us in a minute_."

"I didn't like they way they dragged that guy in there." Artie responded. "If this the guy we're looking for, then I'll catch his scent." Artie looked to Gregory before speaking. "I've seen enough mobster movies to know an armed guard when I see one."

"Alright, I'll cover for you." Jacob said. "But be careful."

Artie nodded and pretended to use the payphone while Jacob began speaking with Gregory. Once Artie saw he was distracted, he slipped in to the alleyway. He quietly climbed up a dumpster, or a skip he heard someone call it, and balanced on the edge. He held his breath so not gag on the smell of rotting garbage and inched until he was just under the ladder of a fire escape. He jumped and his hand caught the bottom of the platform. Artie knew if he'd alert the whole city if he pulled down the ladder.

He carefully pulled himself up and laid down and crawled to the window. He peaked and saw no one was there. He quietly climbed the stairs to the second floor the final level other than the roof and saw this window had been cracked open. That was good because he could hear voices.

"If it's all the same to you inspector." said a young man's voice. "I prefer to hear it from Jimmy with my own ears."

"Let me remind you boy that the only reason we're here is because your father — "

"Let me remind you, inspector, that you came to me for my opinion and not the other way around." said young man sternly. "I was in the middle of an important experiment when your superior rudely demanded — "

"Alright." said the same gruff voice. "Jus' get on with it."

"Just tell me what happened from the beginning." said the young man's voice gently, but clearly bored.

"We'd been to a bar." said a third ,much older, voice and he seemed very nervous. Artie guessed it was Jimmy "Nice place and I got to chattin' with one of the waitresses. Karen weren't too happy with that so when we got back to the hotel, we end up having a bit of ding-dong, don't we?"

The man paused and Artie heard the unmistakable sound of a bored sigh from what Artie guessed was from the younger man.

"She's always gettin' at me, saying I weren't a real man." continued Jimmy.

"Wasn't a real man." corrected the younger one.

"What?"

"It's not 'weren't'. It's wasn't." the young one explained impatiently.

"Oh."

"Go on."

"Well, uh, I don't know how it happened, but,um, suddenly there's a knife my hand." Jimmy seemed to be fumbling for words. "You know, my old man was butcher so I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up a beast."

"Taught." corrected the young man again.

"What?"

"Taught you to cut up a beast."

"Yeah, then, well I'd done it."

"Did it."

"Did it!" snapped Jimmy angrily and Artie heard the sound of hand slamming a table as he shouted. "Stabbed her! Over and over and over again, and I looked down and she weren't — "

Artie heard a sharp sigh and he could only guess who it was.

"Wasn't." growled Jimmy. "She wasn't moving no more."

A pause.

"Any more." Jimmy corrected himself. "God help me, I don't know how it happened, but I swear it was an accident I swear."

"I'm sure it was." said young man dryly. "Now could you tell it backwards?"

"What?"

"Tell me how it happened, but reverse the order." explained the young man slowly. "If you're telling the truth, then it shouldn't be that difficult."

"Hold on a minute." said the voice which Artie recognized as the Inspector. "How is that gonna bloody help?"

"A tip for your interrogations, inspector." said the young smugly. "Liars only fabricate thier stories in one order, from beginning to end. They don't think to rehearse it in reverse. So if Jimmy cannot do so then, when combined with his failed polygraph that you no doubt administered at the station, he is clearly lying." Artie the sound of chair scraping the floor and he guessed someone stood.

"Hey, ya gotta help me, Mr. Molks." begged Jimmy. "Everyone down at the pub says you're the best."

"Go on." said who Artie guessed had to be Mr. Hershel C. Molks.

"Without you, I get hung for this." said Jimmy desperately.

"No, no, no, Jimmy. Not at all." said Hershel gently. "Hanged, yes I'm afraid."

Then Artie heard the sound of struggling and Jimmy cursing as he was led out from the room. Artie nearly jumped when the window flew open, but he kept still. When no one emerged, he relaxed. Then he began to hear the sound of a violin being played expertly and delicately. It was pleasant and soft, but Artie thought it sounded a bit sad.

Suddenly a phone rang and Artie heard Hershel stop his violin playing and picked up the phone.

"Hello?" Hershel paused and seemed to be listening. "I understand. Thank you. What? Oh, I'm sure it's fine."

"I just put the kettle on a moment ago if you want a warm cup of tea." said Hershel as he hung up.

Artie almost answered, but he guessed someone must have entered while Hershel was playing the violin and he hadn't heard them enter.

"If you are expecting to develop a tan on that fire escape, I'm afraid you've chose the wrong season." said Hershel. "Not to mention the wrong city for that matter."

Artie sat up and looked at a boy hardly fourteen standing in the middle of the room and Artie guessed he was feeling what Clarice Starling felt when she first met Doctor Hannibal Lector in Silence of the lambs. The boy had very pale skin like he avoided the sun at all cost. His eyes were a striking gray, not unlike Annabeth, but with none of her warmth. He seemed to be breaking down Artie and was silently calculating as he worked his way down. Artie guessed he did this a lot if the wrinkling around his eyes was any sign along with the bags under those eyes. His raven black hair looked tousled and neat at the same time the way the strands curled around his head.

Artie saw he was very slight, not unlike him, and seemed to be a bit tall for his age. He was wearing a sky blue button down shirt, with the top button unfasten and no tie, under an unbuttoned black blazer and tucked into a pair of black pants. He wore simple polished black loafers on his feet.

"How did you know I was there?" Artie climbed through the window.

"I had the uneasy feeling I was being observed, but it wasn't until a moment ago that my suspicion was confirmed." Hershel directed Artie to an armchair. "Please, sit."

"What do you mean — " Then it dawned on Artie. "Oh, the phone call."

"Hmm, not bad." Hershel said. "Maybe you're not a typical idiot."

"Meaning I'm still some kind of idiot?" Artie asked skeptically.

"Practically everyone is." Hershel shrugged. "Unfortunately, you're not the first to spy on me. That's the reason I keep that homeless man across the street as a cheap surveillance camera. For a few pounds and warm meal here and there, he calls me whenever someone, or several someones, avoid using the front door." Hershel leaned forward and asked."So Brazil or Mexico?"

"What?"

There was a knock on the door.

"Yes?" Hershel called out.

"It's me, Hershel." said a voice that Artie recognized as Gregory. "Unlock the door."

"Follow your spirit . . ." Hershel said carefully.

"Oh come on!" Gregory protested. "Every bloody time."

Hershel waited not saying and watched the door.

"And upon this charge . . ." Gregory said lazily

"Cry, God for Harry, England." responded Hershel.

"And St. George!" Gregory snapped. "Now open this door while its still standing."

Hershel crossed the room and opened the door to reveal Gregory and Jacob standing. Artie turned and saw Jacob was holding a brown paper wrapped box in his hands.

"How did you get inside?" Gregory asked.

"The fire escape." said Hershel. "John called me."

"Oh." He gave Artie a once over. "Seeing as you're still in one piece, no harm done."

"Here." Jacob handed the box to Hershel. "The landlady, Mrs. Morstan she said her name was, said this is for you."

"Thank you." Hershel took the box and studied Jacob for a moment. "Hmm, cousins. That's interesting."

"What?" Jacob looked to Artie.

"Please sit." Hershel motioned to a chair next to Artie. "Gregory, be so kind to fix the tea. I'll only be a moment."

Without a word to confirm, Hershel disappeared behind a door. Gregory appeared from the kitchen a moment later and laid down a tray with tea, milk, and cookies — or biscuits as they were called Artie remembered.

"So what's the case?" Gregory asked as he poured the tea.

"Case?" Artie asked.

"Yeah." said Gregory. "Lots of kids your age have been showing up lately since Hershel saved that banker's boy from being — "

"AHHHHHHHHHH!"shrieked Hershel from the other room which was followed by the sound of something shattering against wall.

In the time it took for Jacob and Gregory to stand, Artie was already throwing the door open. He saw it was a simple bedroom. A small bed with a nightstand, a desk, and a bookshelf.

"Don't move!" hissed a voice.

Artie turned to see Hershel in the corner, scared of his mind. His eyes were wide and he was shaking as brought his knees to his chin and hugged them.

"What's wrong?" Artie looked around the room. He sniffed the air, but didn't smell any monsters. "Why did you scream?"

Hershel lifted a hand a pointed a shaking finger to the desk where the box Jacob had given him. Artie approached the desk slowly, stopping when Jacob and Gregory entered to see what the commotion was. He saw the shattered remains of a lamp around the desk and the box was upturned on top of the desk.

Artie snatched the box away and was greeted by an old friend, though Artie knew he was warning him off and was probably as scared as Hershel. They had met while Artie was in northern Brazil, but Artie had seen pictures of him for years in school. He had seen plenty of people keep them as pets and knew they were relatively unaggressive. He was surprised by the sheer size, but then he remembered this particular child of Arachne was the second largest of its kind in the world. Even as Artie approached, he was in awe of its size.

"Hey there." Artie stretched a hand and its front legs twitched higher, another warning. "No one's gonna hurt you."

"Don't!" hissed Hershel.

"Shh!" Artie laid his arm on the desk with his hand open. "Come on." He crooked his hand. "You just scared him. That's all." He lowered his front legs and tapped Artie's palm experimentally. "See? I'm going to hurt you." Artie smiled and kept coaxing as it began crawling onto him. "That's it. I won't let them hurt you." Artie repressed a fit of the giggles as its hair tickled his bare skin while it scurried up his arm.

"What was in the box?" Gregory was kneeling by Hershel. "Hey! Look at me Hershel!"

"Artie?" Jacob was checking Hershel's pulse. "What was in the box?"

"A fellow countryman." Artie turned and Jacob saw the largest tarantula he had ever seen in his life sitting on Artie's head like a hat. "Lasiodora parahybana! But I know him as the Brazilian Salmon Pink Bird-eating Tarantula." Jacob swore he saw the eight legged rat on Artie's head bow.

A few minutes, Artie's settling on the name , and some gentle coaxing back into her box, Charlotte the spider was safely tucked away and giving to Mrs. Morstan who said she had a nephew who collected them.

Artie had made a mental checklist and found Hershel was two for four. Artie's nose caught the faint smell of sweet olives, just like Annabeth and all of her siblings. Hershel's reaction to Charlotte, which was a strange stroke of luck, was another clue. All Artie needed was to find a way to check just how smart Hershel was and he had all the proof he needed to be sure Hershel was the son of Athena.

They all sat in the common room, everyone but Hershel sipping tea. Artie watched with interest as Hershel tore up the room looking for something.

He snatched a book off the mantle, opened it, and tossed it aside. "Nothing!" He hissed and turned to Gregory. "Greg, I need some. Get me some"

"No." Gregory said plainly.

"Get me some!"

"No!" He turned to Hershel. "Cold turkey, we agreed no matter what."

"I practically had three bloody heart attacks a few minutes ago!" Hershel complained. "With my ruddy ADD, I need something to calm down!"

ADD? Artie thought. Check again.

"No matter what!" Gregory said firmly. "Anyway you paid everyone off, remember?" Gregory took a sip of tea and smiled smugly. "No one within a two mile radius will sell you any."

"Stupid idea!" Hershel yanked open a drawer of desk and ruffled through it. "Whose idea was that?"

Gregory cleared his throat. "Yours."

"I'm lost." Jacob said. "What are you looking for?"

"Cigarettes." Gregory muttered. "Impossible habit in this city."

"Tell me where they are please!" Hershel started tossing papers in the air. "Please!"

"Sorry." Gregory without a hint of sincerity. "Can't help you."

"I'll give you next week's lottery numbers!"

"Ha!"

"Worth a try." Hershel ran to the kitchen and Artie Jacob heard the sound of silverware crashing to the floor. "Oh bugger all!"

"You finished those last week" Gregory called. "Have a cuppa tea."

"I need something stronger than tea!" Hershel came back in sat defeated, glaring at Gregory. "Why are you doing this to me!"

"You asked me to."

"Well, now I'm unasking you." Hershel snapped. "I am an adult."

"Coulda fooled me." Gregory laughed. "Just cause you got yerself emancipated, something I still don't how you did it at thirteen, doesn't mean you're an adult." He slid a cup and saucer in front of him. "Now have some tea and listen to what these fine boys have to say." Gregory turned and smiled apologetically. "There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I'm afraid Hershel here likes to play jump rope with it"

"Jaime sent that thing!" Hershel muttered to himself as he sipped some tea. "It has to be her." Then he seemed to register what Gregory had said. "For your information I'm sixteen now."

"Jaime?" Artie asked munching on biscuit.

"Jaime Mary Aty." Gregory pronounced the last word like eighty. "She and Hershel have been fighting each other since primary school."

"She has never forgotten when the judges of the city Junior Science Fair thought my designs for a solar powered home, cost effective so sixty percent of the country could afford it, was chosen and awarded instead of her designs for new kind of ballistic missile." Hershel seemed to be calming down. "We've been trading blows every since. Now it seems she had lowered herself to humorless pranks."

"Have you tried chocolates and flowers?" Jacob grinned.

"I beg your pardon?" Hershel looked taken aback.

"Good luck with that." Gregory chuckled. "I sooner belive Hershel actualy fought someone."

"If we are done poking fun," Hershel clasped his hands together and looked to Jacob and Artie. "Can we get to the business at hand? What brought you here?"

"Your mother." Artie said going for the conversational jugular. "She sent us to find you."

"Does her depravity know no bounds!" Hershel shot to his feet. "How much did she pay you!"

"Whoa!" Jacob held up his hands. "Calm down there, Sherlock."

"Don't call me that!" Hershel snapped. "Its not funny and most certainly not clever."

"Did I miss something?" Artie looked to Gregory.

"Its Jaime's pet name for him." Gregory explained. "She figured out Hershel's name is an anagram for Sherlock Holmes." He shrugged. "Probably don't help the C stands for Conan and his dad is Arthur Doyle Molks."

"Look, Hershel." Artie said calmly. "I swear we didn't even know about Jaime until a couple of minutes ago. Your mother really did send us."

"Why would she care after nearly sixteen years?" Hershel demanded. "I haven't heard a word from her in all my life and I'm meant to believe that, rather send a letter or show up herself, she sent two cousins from Brazil?"

Artie and Jacob paused and looked to each other.

"How did you know we were cousins?"

"Oh, no." Gregory rolled his eyes. "Hershel, don't."

"They asked."

"You just want to show off."

"Of course I do." Hershel turned. "I'm a show off. It's what we do."

"How did you know?" Artie paused. "Hold on. Before Jacob came up, you asked Brazil or Mexico?"

"Yes." Hershel nodded. "I wasn't sure to which."

"But now you know?" Jacob asked.

"I knew when you entered." Hershel answered.

"How?"

"Well, my first clue was Artie's skin tone." Hershel grasped Artie by the chin and began turning him side to side as he began speaking quickly. "Brown as nut. Lack of a British accent told me you hadn't simply been away on holiday, but somewhere from the Americas. Your speech screamed northern United States, New York most likely going by its popularity. Any father north you'd have either french inflection or a Boston manner." Hershel was speaking like a machine gun, but had stopped shaking Artie's like a rag doll. "But New York is too far north to develop such a rich deep tan. Must be he was born and raised farther south, but outside of the US since there isn't a hint of a southern drawl. So that meant either Central or South America." Hershel was blind to the stares he was receiving from the Gallezi's and the glare from Gregory and he grabbed Artie's head and turned it to show his left profile. "Then there was the scar on his left eye. Too crooked for a knife, but it is similar to one I received when I was little from an alley cat. Considering it is much wider and larger, a large cat." Hershel grabbed and rubbed Artie's palm. "Ignoring the possibility of a zoo and those callused hands, it's very likely a hunting accent. Now where could one receive a scratch from a large cat outside of zoo? Either the Amazon Rainforest or Lacandon Jungle." Hershel motioned to Artie. "Which left me with the question . . ."

"Mexico or Brazil." Artie whispered in awe.

"Then you." Hershel turned to Jacob and it was his turn have his neck bent every which way "A very similar skin tone, but not as rich. No British accent, but not an eastern accent like Artie either. So that leaves California. Like New York, I'd guess Los Angles or San Fransisco." Hershel then motion to Jacob's belt and plucked the Rio De Janerio coat of arms buckle and Jacob struggled to hold up his pants with his hands. "That was another clue. Clearly you have a strong tie to Rio De Janerio. Most likely a birthplace." Hershel then pointed to the both of them, tossing the buckle to Jacob "Both of you were born in Rio, long enough to receive a similar scar." Hershel grabbed each by the chin and turned them, Artie to his left and Jacob right. "By the same cat if not one of the same species. You act like brothers, though Artie seems to act like the elder rather than Jacob who clearly is the elder, but your features say otherwise." Hershel released them and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So both born in Rio, but both speak with inflections of the United States and opposite sides of the country to boot. You share similarities though not enough to be brothers, but too much to be second and third cousins. That leaves only plain cousins."

"So my belt," Jacob caught his buckle that Gregory tossed to him. "Told you for sure we were from Rio."

"That and the fact that Artie mentioned that spider that Jaime no doubt sent. " Hershel shuddered at the thought, but regained his composure. "Artie said it was a Brazilian Salmon Pink Bird-eating Tarantula. A bit of long name if you ask me."

"And how just how long did it take for you to put that all together?" Artie asked.

"I put it all together when Jacob handed over that box." Hershel said. "When he explained where it can from I caught on entirely. Your relation to each other I pieced together while I was looking for my emergency stash in the kitchen."

_I'm glad Annabeth isn't here._ Artie thought to himself and hid a smile._ She'd kill me on the spot if I even hinted I met someone smarter than her_. He clapped. "I bow to mechanic."

"Excuse me?" Hershel looked confused.

"It's a line from Robin and the Seven Hoods." Jacob rolled his eyes. "Artie likes to quotes movies when he can."

"We all have little quirks." Artie smiled. "What I meant — "

Artie was interrupted by an eight bit version of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture.

"Sorry. It's mine." Gregory produced a cellphone and began speaking. "Hello, Watson's Detective Agency. This is — " Gregory paused. "Yessir. I understand, but . . ."

"Watson's Detective Agency?" Jacob asked.

"Yes." Hershel nodded. "No one would take an agency seriously if a sixteen year old teenager was the detective instead of the former doctor." Hershel shrugged. "It's sometimes annoying, but then I saw when no one take you seriously they don't really care if you hear them or not. Most just assume I'm his son or an assistant."

"Right away, sir." Gregory closed the phone and spoke to Hershel. "The chief detective inspector wants us at the station right away. Apparently someone in the holding cells walked out the front door without anyone seeing him."

"And the culprit has no ties to organized crime?" Hershel stood and pulled on a coat. "It would be altogether obvious how he got out."

"No." Gregory patted pockets to make sure he had everything. "They said just some back alley mugger. They probably want you to find the hole so they can plug it."

Artie and Jacob followed Gregory and Hershel out as they tried to get Hershel to listen, but he wouldn't.

"Hershel!" Artie was practically pleading while Gregory tried to flag a cab. "This is serious. More serious than you could imagine."

"I can imagine quite a bit." Hershel said dryly. "I don't understand your game. First you say my mother sent you after nearly two decades of silence and now you say its bigger than that. Which is it?"

"Both!" Jacob cried. "Your mom and her family are — "

"I hope I'm not interrupting." said a smug voice.

Everyone turned, then looked down, to see a young blonde girl in a wheelchair. Had she been able to, she would have stood almost a foot over Artie's six feet. She looked cute if not for her empty,almost reptilian, eyes. It was like she didn't see three people in front of her. She saw prey. She was wearing snowboots and thick pants on long thing legs and wore leather drving gloves on her hands with her green coat.

Artie instinctively sniffed the air and his eyes went wide.

"Jaime." said Hershel somehow sound colder than coldest Victorian winter.

"You ssseem to be doing well." Jaime smiled brightly at the three boys and everyone but Artie flinched. There was something sinister about that smile. "Did you like your Christmassss presssent? I picked it out mysssself."

"You surprised me," Hershel frowned. "Now I have to find something for you. I'll have to make sure to pick something just as good."

"Don't try too hard, my little Sssherlock." Jaime winked. "Ssssurprises have never been your thing." She seemed to notice Artie was staring. "Can I help you?"

"Hershel?" Artie said calmly, not taking his eyes from Jaime. "How good is your memory?"

"It's eidetic."

"How good is that?" Jacob asked, wondering why Artie was staring down a girl in a wheelchair.

"It meansss he hasss perfect recall." Jaime exaplined, returning Artie's stare.

"When did you first meet Jaime, Hershel?" Artie felt his claws tingling. "When exactly?"

"It was — " Hershel paused. "We were . . ." This had never happened before Hershel realized as tried to place it. "She . . . I . . . uh . . . I can't . . . I can't remember."

"Thought so!" Artie growled.

Before anyone got wise to what he planned, Artie did something shocking. He quickly flipped the brake on Jaime's wheelchair as he slashed at her face with his claws. Jaime managed to jump back enough to avoid having her eyes hit, but Artie's heart wasn't in it. It was just a distraction so she didn't see him placing a foot on her chair and kicking as hard as he could, sending her speeding backward onto a busy Baker Street.

Cars screeched to a stop on both sides and were rear ended by the others behind him. Pedestrians paused and turned to see the commotion as cabbies got out from their taxis and shouted. No one saw Jaime as a huge red double decker bus screeched to a halt in front of them.

"Are you insane?!" Hershel demanded not believe what he just saw.

"She wasn't who you thought she was." Artie said tensely.

"What was she one of them?" Jacob asked sounding concerned.

"What the bloody hell was that about?!" Gregory ran up to them. "Tell me I didn't just see what I saw."

Artie ignored Gregory and said to Jacob. "Yes, but I'm not sure what exactly."

"You just pushed a disabled girl into traffic!" Hershel shouted.

"A girl maybe, but not human" Artie looked around and seemed to be searching for something. "And definitely not disabled."

"What are you talking about?" Hershel demanded.

"Elementary, my dear Hershel." Artie smiled. "She was — "

Hershel saw something suddenly shoot out from behind Artie and wrap around his neck, choking down his movie quote as it yanked him back. Hershel swore what he saw next was a clear sign he didn't just suffer from ADHD, but from dementia as well.

It looked like that Jaime had not only escaped being crushed by several cars, but had miraculously regained the use of her legs in the strangest and most impossible way possible. She was standing tall on one long thin leg, but her other leg was wrapped around Artie's neck as it dangled him off the ground.

Then things began to really get weird, but at least it explained why Jaime had a serious lisp when she spoke.

Slowly her skin began to appear bumpy and change color. Soon her skin resembled green and yellow reptilian scales. Her nails had become long black needle like claws and a forked tongue flicked in and out as she smiled at the struggling and kicking demigod which revealed rows of hooked teeth that Hershel recognized as the teeth of an anaconda. Jaime's hair was still blonde, but it didn't appear as clean as before. Now he was her legs weren't really legs, but long snake trunks.

"That'sss new." Jaime smiled. "Mossst cannot sssee me for what I am." She cocked her head. "How did you know?" She seemed displeased with Artie's choked gasps for air and slammed him hard against the red decker bus. "Ssspeak and I might jusssst let you go."

Suddenly she turned and hissed at Hershel and Jacob. "Do not even think about it, half blood!" She dragged a claw across Artie's cheek. "Or I might nick ssssomething vital. Drop them!"

Hershel turned to see Jacob laying down two bronze boomerangs on the floor. He wasn't sure what made him act, but Hershel recalled how Gregory always kept a SIG Sauer pistol in a police officer's leather strap. He saw Gregory was scared but also confused to what he was seeing. Quickly, before Gregory tried to stop him and Jaime was occupied with Jacob, he snatched the gun.

Jacob saw and shouted. "No! That won't — "

Hershel, mentally thanked Gregory for the trips to a firing range, emptied the gun into Jaime's body. Hershel then swore someone had forgotten to tel him the laws of physics had been altered. The bullets passed right through Jaime like she wasn't even there.

"Sssame old Ssssherlock." Jaime tsked. "Never lissstening to othersss."

"Let him go!" Gregory charged.

"No!" Jacob snatched up his boomerangs in the blink of an eye.

Jaime sneered and whipped her other leg into Gregory's chest, sending him crashing into a stopped cab. Fortunately, it was enough for Jacob's boomerangs to collide with Jaime's head and she dropped Artie. Artie coughed as he quickly ran to Jacob.

"Thanks." Artie coughed. "Cut it a little close."

"You have your quiver?" Jacob caught his boomerangs and Hershel noticed he was wearing bronze gauntlets.

"No." Artie stood rubbing his throat.

"Kopis?"

"Left them both at the hotel." Artie grunted. "Along with my armor."

"So like old times." Jacob frowned.

"I wouldn't say that." Artie stuck two fingers in his mouth. "But I would say no king fights on the front lines.

Artie whistled loudly, the piercing sound carrying louder than the honlng of car horns and shouting voices.

Hershel saw hundreds of rats scurrying out from beneath sewer grates and behind trash cans. All of them large with either black or brown fur. They also weren't alone and Hershel saw dozens of cat mixed among them with shades of bright colors among a sea of black and brown. Then, bringing up the rear, were the dogs. English Cocker and Springer Spaniels of varying colors and sizes with clumps of dirt in their coats were accompanied with occasional jet black Bull Terrier.

"I will feassst on half blood flessssh tonight!" screeched Jaime, brandishing her claws. "Come!"

Artie smiled. "In chess, the pawns go first."

"What?"

Artie pointed behind her.

Jaime turned. "Oh . . ."

"Fly my pretties!" Artie cackled. "Fly!"

Jaime's howls of pain was engulfed by a sea of barks, hisses, and squeaks as was physically drowned in an ocean of London's strays.

Hershel turned to Artie. "Explain!"

"What would you say if I said that your mother was Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom?" Artie asked.

"Considering what I just saw." Hershel gulped. "I'd have to believe you."

"Really?" Jacob asked. "That easy?"

"Eliminate the impossible." Hershel said. "Whatever remains, however improbable, is the solution. Your Greek goddess theory fits as good as any."

Suddenly there was a clatter of metal and wood on stone. They looked to see a white sword and black cane on the floor at their feet. Hershel turn up to see a hawk with dark red tail feather soaring off.

"Here!" Artie pressed the cane into Hershel hand and snatched up the white sword. "Jaime there is going to keep coming unless we stick her with celestial bronze."

"This is wood." Hershel held up the cane.

"Twist and pull." Jacob said.

Hershel did and was shocked to see he was hold a three foot long sword of glowing bronze with a silver owl on the hilt. The blade was straight and had point for thrusting as well as a razor edge for slashing.

"I've never used a sword in my life." Hershel laughed at the strange turn his life was taking. "Gregory has always handled the rough."

"It's easy." Jacob laughed.

"How?" Hershel chuckled. "Stick her with pointy end?"

"It's been working wonderfully for me for sixteen years." Artie shrugged. "Why change it up now?"

"It's a sword, Sherlock, not a fighter jet" Jacob rolled his eyes. "What's so hard about swish, swish, stab?"


	6. Smits

"You're always saying we need to get the lay of the land." Jacob reminded.

"He lives on the other side of the city." Artie snapped. "Have some self control."

"Self control?!" Jacob motioned around them. Not the little cafe, but the city. "This is Amsterdam!"

"We're not on vacation." Artie frowned. "We're not here to take pictures of monuments or whatever tourists do when they get here."

"Sorry," Jacob shrugged. "I forgot."

"Did you also forget we have an address?" Artie sipped his coffee.

"No." Jacob looked away.

"Then why would we go to De Wallen?" Artie asked. "What's there?"

"Hey, excuse me?" said a voice.

Artie turned in his chair to see a sixty-something man sitting at the table directly behind them. "Yes?"

"I think I know why you're brother there wants go to De Wallen so badly." He held a hand. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but these tables are sometimes too close together."

"No problem." Artie returned the smile. "I didn't people spoke english here."

"Well, the official language is Dutch." said the man. "But a good majority of the people have a firm grasp of English and German."

"That's good to know." Artie remarked. "So what's in De Wallen?"

"Oh so many things." the man winked and whispered in Artie's ear. "Most come for the . . . "

Artie's cheek flushed a bright red as he stared at daggers at Jacob. "Oh . . ."

"It was just a suggestion." Jacob said sheepishly when the man returned to his coffee.

"And what do you suggest for your tombstone?" Artie demanded. "Because Artemis will kill you."

"Not you?" Jacob raised an eyebrow.

"To paraphrase Kangaroo Jack," Artie said. "She'll kill you in front of me and then make me clean it up."

"That's not so bad for you." Jacob chuckled nervously. "I thought she might feed us to alligators or something."

"That might not be so bad."

"I can think of ten different ways that might be better than being eaten alive by alligators."

"Not if you go first and I get to watch." Artie smiled.

"Funny." Jacob said flatly.

"I thought so."

* * *

Tor Smits was glad his audition for Eric Bakker's play was over.

It was only by the skin of teeth, and the fact his mother was head of set design, that he was the fourth stand in for the lead role of Thor Odinson. If by some unfortunate series of incidents, or act of a god or two, and three Thors were suddenly incapable of performing, Tor would be wielding Mjnoir while frost giants danced and sang around him.

Mr. Bakker's original productions had made him a local celebrity in Amsterdam. Though not all were as fortunate, those who starred in his plays and musicals often went on to better roles on the professional level. He had also won a few awards praising his work as both a writer and director.

The problem, as often was the case, all the praise combined with the desire to break into the bigger budget productions of the professionals had swelled his already bloated ego. He had no problem insulting those who auditioned for him to hysterical cries.

"_Het was rommelig_!" exclaimed Mr. Bakker. "You call that banshee screech singing?"

"_Meneer _Bakker?" squeaked the woman on stage.

"I've heard better on my uncle's farm when I was boy and he had me kill a pig!" Bakker waved a hand. "_Naa_ — "

"Don't you think you're being a little hard?" asked Tor's mother, head of set design, Maartje Smits.

"Hard?" Bakker repeated. "Freyja is — "

"Yes." Maartje agreed. "But perhaps she would be better suited for one of her daughters. Hnoss maybe? The way you wrote her to be shrill and annoying would be perfect."

Tor smiled. He knew his mother was playing Bakker. Maartje was as sweet as she was skilled at making sets come to life. She might have sounded insulting, but Bakker would never do what she wanted if he knew she disagreed with him.

"Fine!" Bakker rolled his eyes before speaking to the girl on stage. "Report to Gustav and have him fit you for Hnoss." He called after her as she ran off stage. "Rehearsal is at seven sharp!"

"Are we done for today?" Maartje asked.

"Let me see." Bakker checked his clipboard. "Hmm."

"What?"

"A three way audition." Bakker read. "For Loki, Sigyn, and Heimdallr."

"Are you sure?"

"It's what I wrote." Bakker scratched his head. "_Dat is vreemd_. I think I would have remembered writing that down." Bakker shrugged. "Oh, well. _Naast_!"

Tor was startled by the sound of a single trumpet breaking the silence before it was joined by what he somehow knew were flutes, trombones, violins, cellos, some saxophones and one harp. The curtain slowly began to rise as a young woman's voice began to sing. To his ear, she sound just heavenly. As she sang, Tor got a good look at her. This woman had fair skin, light brown eyes and braided dark brown hair. She had an angular face with fine eyebrows and a narrow nose. Her clothes were nice, but not flashy. Just a pastel blue dress and matching shoes.

_We quarreled and we spatted_

_From morning until night_

_We used to think it funny_

_But now it isn't quiiiite_

_The laaaaaaughs it waaas befooore_

_So if you'll open the doooooor_

_I'll bother you no mooooore_

Then the music began to swell and another voice began as a young man entered from left stage. He was lean with a deep tan and had an average build. He had a well trimmed mustache and goatee that matched his long chestnut brown hair that he kept tied back. He wore a suit that Tor had seen in one of Bakker's other plays. The one about Italian gangsters trying to establish a base in Amsterdam. He even had the fedora with a white band around it, a red rose in the breast pocket, and sunglasses to hid his eyes.

While the girl had sounded pleasant and maybe even great with some lessons, the guy in the suit was in a league of his own. He was all charming smiles and oozed confidence as he sang his way to the girl who pretended to be surprised at his intrusion.

At the same time, entering from the right, was another guy. He was very lean and thin, making him look taller than he was. He was clean shaven, but had the same deep tan as other. He even had the same hairstyle, although Tor saw this one had streaks of bright silver streaks. Like the other guy, a close relative Tor guessed, he had sunglasses as well as a hat and rose. His voice was decent enough, but he was the least of the three.

From then on they began switching lines back and forth. As they sang and the girl acted as if she was shocked to see them both, Tor understood. He had heard this song used in auditions before, but only as duets. These three were not only making a trio, but they were throwing their own modern spin on it.

_My little chick-a-dee_

_(You may say that you're through with me)_

_You'll have no more to do with me_

_(You're all through with me and good day)_

_But you'll find that love won't let you get away_

The girl pretend to scowl and sang to each in turn. The boys simply smiled while they continued to switch answers.

_It's finny and done with!_

_(Who will have fun with?)_

_You're no laughs to be with!_

_Who you'll watch TV with?_

_You're no one to pine for!_

_(Who will chill the wine for?)_

_This is too-da-loo, we're through!_

Tor found himself tapping his foot and he noticed his mother was pleasantly bobbing her head along as the two suitors sang sweetly to the girl. No sooner than they finished, she continued to resist and sang a line to each suitor.

_Just leave no trace at all_

_(Hide your heart any place at all)_

_I won't miss your embrace at all!_

_Or that face at all, Come what maaaaaay!_

_Darling, girl, I hope this won't upset ya_

_(But I'd like to bet ya, love won't let ya get awaaay)_

Tor leaned carefully to see what Bakker thought. From what he could tell, Bakker was studying them carefully. Tor wasn't sure what Bakker was looking or waiting for, but it wasn't the usual insulted scowl he had been wearing all day. He kept that same straight impassive look while the music continued and the girl danced with each man while other would pretend to swoop in and steal her away from the other.

Then they began to sing again. The girl still refusing each man playfully while they kept on pursuing her with smiles and winks.

_Darling, you astound me!_

_(Put your arms around me?)_

_But we're through completely!_

_But you kiss so sweetly?_

_Must you always flatter?!_

_(Must you always chatter at times like this?)_

Tor expected the girl to chose, or at least make a show she had, but she seemed choose both. She would dance to each in turn as sang together in a duet for a line then switch to other, all the while bringing the suitors closer until they stood next to each other with her in the middle.

_Well, here we go again_

_(Caught in love's undertow again)_

_Latching on to that glow again_

_(Here we go again, hip-hooraaaaay)_

They finished the last verse with a line each before finally belting one heck of power chord for the finale as a trio.

_Let the cynics laugh and try to bet us_

_Their doubts won't upset us_

_Love won't let us get away_

_Love. Won't. Let us. Get awaaaaaaaaaaay!_

The song barely finished when Maartje stood and clapped enthusiastically. Tor didn't jump up like his mother had, but he clapped too. Even the stage hands and the one janitor sweeping in the corner were clapping and yelling cheers in Dutch. Only Bakker held back, though it was clear on his face he was impressed.

"Hmph!" Bakker pointed to the girl. "You are not the worst to audition for Sigyn so far. Come back tomorrow and I will decide who will understudy whom."

The girl bowed and ran off practically skipping with joy.

"Now, you!" Bakker pointed to the guy without the silver streaks in his hair. "What is your name?"

"Jacob Gallezi." he answered.

"Someone give Jacob a script!" Bakker barked and waited until Jacob had a script in hand. "Page twelve line four, read!"

"Um . . . one second. I have dyslexia." Jacob cleared his throat as he read. " Enough! You are, all of you are, beneath me! I am a god, you dull creature, and I will not be bullied by submortals!"

"Hmm . . ." Bakker considered Jacob then shrugged. "I've seen better, but it will have to do. You will be Loki." Bakker turned to the other guy. "As for you, your name?"

"Artie Gallezi." he answered.

"Brothers, huh?"Bakker shrugged. "Shame it would made some fine irony to have actually brothers acting as brothers, but we already have four Thors." Bakker motioned for another script. "Both of you, read from the top of page sixteen."

"Okay," Jacob turned to Artie. "What troubles you, gatekeeper?"

"I turned my gaze upon you in Jotunheim but could neither see you nor hear you." Artie said stoically. "You were shrouded from me like the Frost Giants that had entered this realm." Artie frowned and turned to Bakker. "Hold on, you stole this from Thor."

"Excuse me?" Bakker scowled. "That script is one hundred percent original. I wrote each line myself."

"Well, this bit Ashely Miller and Zack Stentz wrote." Artie pointed to the page. "Read it, every word is lifted straight from the scene when Loki orders Heimdallr to keep the rainbow bridge, or Bifrost, closed to anyone until he finishes dealing with Thor on earth."

"You are sorely mistaken!" Bakker frowned.

"Then stop me when I make mistake." Artie handed the script over to Jacob and began switching voices from his stoic Heimdallr to a calm Loki as he recited the rest of the scene. "Perhaps your senses have weakened after your many years of service. Or perhaps someone has found a way to hide that which he does not wish me to see. You have great power, Heimdallr. Did Odin fear you? No. And why is that? Because he is my king, — "

"_Genoeg_!" barked Bakker.

"He has a point." Maartje flinched when Bakker flashed her a look and Tor wished he had hammer to knock his block off. "Perhaps it was playing on the television in the background while you wrote."

"Hmm . . ." Bakker's eyes flicked to Artie. "I had the feeling I had heard that somewhere." He spoke up. "It seems you are a correct, but criticize my work again and you won't be able to set one _voet _in a theater not even to sweep!" He waved his hand. "Away with you. Have Gustav fit you both for Loki and Heimdallr."

The Gallezi brothers quickly left the stage.

Tor was surprised Bakker was so calm after someone accused him of plagiarism, but then he found out Bakker had other ways of letting off steam.

"Maartje, I am meeting with a journalist." Bakker shrugged on his coat. "While I give an interview, please see that we have a convincing Asgardian garden for Odin and Hnoss to frolic in."

"I thought you said you liked the set I painted." Maartje said.

"Yes, but I want it feel like a garden." Bakker said. "Detail is everything. I want bees buzzing and some birds fluttering. Maybe a hawk circling overhead with a falconer in the back too."

Tor clenched his jaw tight. His mother had slaved over the garden set for days. Odin's castle floated in the background while the sun set. The only way the trees and flowers could look more like like would be to use actual flowers and trees. After it was done, Bakker took one look at it and said it would have to do like he was hoping for more. There just wasn't any pleasing him.

Tor knew he would be in for a late night. His mother might the one in charge of set design, but he was the one unofficially in charge of set effects. It was up to him to make sure all of the sandbags were properly filled to the right weight. Bakker always insisted on stages that could function without electricity as an homage to Shakespeare. It was also up to him to come up with whatever was needed to make Bakker's vision come to life. One time, for an underwater scene, Tor had managed to flood the stage so the audience would be splashed with water as Beowulf tangled with a sea serpent for under one hundred euros.

Another time, for a scene that involved angels fighting as they fell from heaven, he designed and built a large conveyer belt that would move several dozen yards of painted curtains behind actors suspended on wires to make look as if it they were really falling. When Bakker said he wanted the swords to be on fire, Tor hammered the steel prop swords for hours in a welding shop to make the edges appear they were on fire which he later painstakingly painted for hours. To add to the illusion, he added pieces of flint along the blunted edge of both sword so sparks would fly out when they collided.

That night he spent hunched over a workbench while everyone else had left hours ago and was asleep in their beds. He crumpled a sketch in his fist and tossed it over his shoulder. He was having a hard time coming up with a design for a pigeon. He had taken a few pictures with Polaroid of pigeons in the park, but he couldn't get an accurate design of their wings. It was like trying to design a car without knowing if was a truck or a limo.

He had expected his mother to come bursting in hours ago and demand he come home, but she didn't. It didn't really matter to him. He was used to long nights and tinkering helped him focus which any fifteen year old with ADHD found difficult. There was just something calming about the clicking and whirring of tiny gears, like white noise or the sound of waves crashing that people listened to fall asleep. He also felt a strange feeling, for the lack of a better word, of power. Like an artist with a canvas or composer at piano, he had the power to create something from nothing. Like a culinary master chef could make art from some basic ingredients, a knife, and some heat. All he needed was some tools, a few key materials, some know-how, and large amounts of creative passion.

He pushed himself away from the bench and rubbed his eyes.

"Long night?" asked a voice.

He jumped and fell on the floor. He looked up to see someone place a sandwich and a mug of coffee on the bench before they bent down and offered a hand. "Sorry about that?"

It was when Tor took the hand that he recognized the guy. "I know you. You auditioned with that girl and your brother."

"Yeah." He smiled. "I'm Artie. Artie Gallezi"

"Tor." he said. "Tor Smits."

"Tor?" Artie asked. "Like I tore some paper?"

"Sort of." Tor explained. "Its the old Danish name for Thor."

"Like the name of the play." Artie said. "Thor : Protector of Midgard."

"That and the Norse god of thunder." Tor said.

"Sorry. Norse mythology isn't exactly my forte." Artie shrugged. "I prefer the Greek gods." Artie paused. "Hold on. Danish? I thought the Netherlands were Dutch."

"They are." Tor rolled his shoulders. "But I'm from Denmark and so is my mother."

"Oh."

"What are you doing here so late at night?" Tor asked.

"Just checking up on something." Artie said. "You?"

"Bakker said he wanted some _vervloekt _birds fluttering in his gardens" Tor grunted. "So I'm building them."

"Birds?" Artie asked. "Couldn't you just cut some out of cardboard and stick them to the set?"

"He wants them flying around like real birds." Tor muttered.

"So you just hang them on wires?"

"No." Tor sighed. "He wants them to actually fly."

"And you can do that?" Artie looked surprised. "All by yourself?"

"No one knows how to build things." Tor rolled his eyes. "Bakker thinks my mother is the one here, but its always me."

"Anything I can do to help?" Artie handed Tor the mug of coffee. "Here, before its gets cold."

"_Dank u_." Tor sipped the coffee. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer, but I doubt you have a pigeon in your pocket."

"A pigeon?"

"Yes." Tor took another sip and was grateful for the pick me up. "So I can sketch their wings. I need some clear pictures of their wings so I can build them right so they can fly."

"Hmm." Artie seemed to be considering something. "Anything else?"

"Well, besides the pigeon I need a hawk too." Tor said. "Bakker said he wants a hawk or two to be in the trees."

"Turns out I can help with both." Artie pointed to the window. "Open that all the way."

Tor wasn't sure what he made of Artie. He seemed to be pleasant enough, but there was something off. For one thing, it was pitch dark and he was wearing sunglasses. Artie acted like they were plain glasses and seemed to have no trouble walking around like he couldn't see. He had said he was checking up on something, but hadn't said exactly what.

He carefully opened the window and peaked outside. The street was deserted except for a homeless man sleeping on bench and some cats seem to be rooting through a trashcan. The streetlights were on along with a few in the windows above shops. He squinted to see some birds perched on a lamp post a few feet from the curb, but he couldn't see exactly what kind.

"I don't understand." Tor said as he poked his head back inside. "How is this going to help."

"One second." Artie reached inside a pocket and pulled a small packet of crackers. They were the kind restaurants gave when you ordered soup."Just have a pencil ready."

Tor took the sketchbook from under the plate, he saw that Artie had brought him a ham sandwich, as Artie crushed the crackers in his hands and threw them out of the window. In less than a minute he heard the fluttering and flapping of two dozen pairs of wings. Artie smiled and reached down slowly.

"What are you — " Tor began to ask.

"Shh!" Artie said. "You'll scare them." Artie smiled gently at the window and began to make a sound that Tor recognized as a pigeon's cooing. "_Coorrro . . . coorrroo . . . coorroo . . ._ "

Tor was amazed when Artie stood up straight and a gray pigeon with a green head was in his hand. It looked around curiously as it cooed and seemed to like it when Artie gently rubbed his head.

"No one is going to hurt you." Artie crooned sweetly. "My friend just wants to draw you." Artie turned to Tor. "I'm going to put him on the desk. If you want him to do something just ask nicely."

"_Onmogelijk _. . ." Tor whispered. "How did you do that?"

"I asked for his help." Artie set the pigeon on the desk. "Whenever you're ready."

Tor sat back at his desk and laid out his sketchbook. "Um, can you open your wings please?"

The pigeon cocked his head, but opened his wings wide.

"Thank you?" Tor turned to Artie who was watching with mild intrest. He turned back to the pigeon, feeling silly. "Just stay like that."

Like he had done hundreds of times, Tor kept his gaze on the bird while his hand sketched. He would glance down every now and then, but hardly at all. He saw its wing span was roughly twice as long as its body. It also had knees of sort, but bent back rather forward like people. Its feet and legs were a light red with surprisingly sharp talons, but nothing like a hawk or a carnivorous bird. He had it turn around and saw it very distinctive twin black bars on each wing and had white lower back feathers.

Tor quickly forgot his skittishness and produced a ruler. The pigeon allowed him to take measure and even held an end with his beak so he could jot down the numbers. He measured the bird like a tailor would for someone who wanted a suit, even measuring the distance between its legs which Artie snickered at.

He made a total of four sketches. The first two was the front and back of the pigeon with its wings spread wide open. The second pair, Artie having to assure the bird Tor wouldn't hurt him, were profile sketches of it flapping. The pigeon laid on its breast in Tor's large hand while his free hand sketched once with its wings up high and again down low.

"Done?" Artie asked.

"_Ik ben klaar_." Tor nodded as he rubbed the bird's chest gently. "Thank you."

Without a word the pigeon flew out of the window, but it seemed to give Artie a deep bow before it did.

"Now, you said you needed designs for a hawk too, right?" Artie asked.

"Yes." Tor nodded. "But I don't think some crumpled crackers is going to work this time. " Tor paused. "I'm not certain there are hawks in the city or the country."

"You're right about the city." Artie agreed. "They tend to like trees, but the Netherlands has a few like the Osprey. I've seen a few on my way here."

"Don't tell me you got them to follow you." Tor asked skeptically.

"Follow me, yes." Artie said as he walked to the window. "But not an osprey." Artie leaned out of the window again and Tor heard him whistle loudly.

Unless Tor was hearing things or dreaming, something he hadn't ruled out yet, the screech of hawk echoed. It didn't sound that far off. Then suddenly heard the fluttering of several dozen wings mixed with the panicked cooing of pigeons. Whatever Artie had called, probably a well trained pet, clearly ate pigeons.

A second later, perched on the windowsill with sharp focused eyes, was a brown and white hawk with brick red tail feather staring at him. After a long moment, the hawk apparently lost interest with Tor and looked at Artie with that same unblinking stare and chirped at him. Tor wasn't sure, but the way it cocked its head the hawk seemed to be asking Artie something.

"Might be." Artie said to the bird.

"Might be what?" asked Tor.

"Oh, nothing." Artie motioned to the hawk. "Tor, this is Tobias." He turned to Tobias. "Tobias, this is Tor."

Again, Tobias stared that unblinking stare and Tor had the uneasy feeling he was evaluating him somehow, especially when he cocked his head left and right.

"Tobias, Tor needs your help." Artie said politely. "He needs to draw you so he can design some model birds that can actually fly. Whadda ya say?"

Silently, Tobias fluttered to the desk and began picking at Tor's sandwich. Tor watched as he tossed aside the top slice of bread and tore chucks of ham.

"Uh, sorry." Artie said sheepishly. "Tobias isn't exactly the type to follow orders like pigeons are."

"_Zit u er niet over in_." Tor assured when he saw Tobias' razor sharp needle like talons. "Better that sandwich than me."

"True." Artie folded his arms and tapped his his foot impatiently as Tobias gulped down the last few pieces of ham. "Done yet?"

Tobias seemed to nod and made a deep guh-runk sound in his throat.

"All right, Mr. DeMille, he's ready for his close up." Artie motioned for Tor to sit down.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Artie said. "Just a line from Sunset Boulevard."

"Sunset Boulevard?"

"It's a movie." Artie frowned. "A really famous movie. A classic!"

Tor shook his head.

"It's been number twelve on the Greatest Movies of All Time for decades!"

"Sorry." Tor sat back at his desk. "Tobias was it?"

Tobias nodded.

"Could you spread your wings, please?"

Like before, Tor's hand began to sketch as he returned Tobias' unblinking stare.

Tor was surprised and impressed with how two members of the same species could be so different and so similar.

Like the pigeon, Tobias' wing span was considerably longer than his whole body, but it was huge. When he stopped to measure, he was shocked it was over a meter and half (about five feet). Another thirty centimeters and Tobias could cover him from head to toe. Gently, he felt how long and the shape of his wing bones and made note that they felt hollow, but surprisingly strong.

Like before, he made a total of four sketches with the front and back of Tobias' wings spread out and two of him in flying position with his wings up and down. He also made fifth sketch of his talons and noted how much thicker legs Tobias compared to the pigeon.

"I'm done." Tor nodded to Tobias. "Thank you, Tobias."

Tobias gave Tor a cut nod and went to perch on the windowsill.

"Got everything?" Artie asked.

"Yes." Tor flipped through the sketches. "Now for the easy part."

"Easy?"

"Yes." Tor pointed to a box. "Hand me that would you?"

"Sure." Artie picked up the small box. "Whats in it?"

"My tools that I use for cutting and connecting wire." Tor opened the box. "Along with toys and remote controls."

"Toys?"

"Just some remote controlled cars and things like that." Tor took out a screwdriver, a small roll of wire, and portable soldering iron. "I just have to remove the chip from a couple and solder them together."

"Just like that?"

"I also have add a switch so the pieces alternate between up and down." Tor picked up a screwdriver and began removed screws with a practiced hand. "Once I build the motors, I have to build the bodies around them."

"With what?" Artie asked. "Wood and plastic?"

"In a way." Tor grunted as he became engrossed in his work. "I'm going use toothpicks to build the _geraamte_. Skeleton I think is the word for it in english."

"And cover the outside with plastic?"

"No." Tor pushed aside the remains of a toy car and started on another one. "Paper. Plastic will make the entire thing too heavy to stay airborne and will drain the batteries too quickly."

"Couldn't you just use more batteries?"

"But then I add more weight." Tor said. "Which leaves me with the same problem. Weight is the issue. It is a very careful ratio of weight to wing span." Tor broke open the motors he took from the cars and began clipping wires. "I'll have to reinforce the place where the motor will sit so that means I have a very small amount of weight to play with when I factor in the tape and glue I have use. Not mention I have make sure the motor can adjust the tail so it can turn."

Artie stood back as it was apparent he was watching an artist at work. While he had caught a glimpse of him while he and Jacob tried out for the play, thank the gods he still had those magic breath mints Apollo gave him on his birthday, Artie gave Tor a through once over. Tor, like Charles Beckondorf back a camp, had the same huge child of Hephaestus build. To Artie, he kind of looked like a modern day Viking. Like Marv in Sin City, Artie sure Tor could blend in with a viking raiding party with a war hammer in his thick calloused hand. He wasn't the best looking guy, but Artie wasn't looking for America's Next Top Model. Tor even smelled like a child of Hephaestus. Artie never told any of them because he thought he'd insult, but children tended to smell like hot metal.

_He seems to one of you_. Tobias chirped in his mind._ Only the smith's children could be so gentle and precise with those anacondas he has for fingers._

_Not to mention he was able to figure out what he needed to make something fly_. Artie responded. _Though I never thought he could do so much with toys._

_ I always wonder why your kind continues to fight nature_. Tobias jabbed his head to Tor who was oblivious to the world. _Especially him and his siblings. If your kind was meant to fly or breath underwater, you would have been made with wings and gills._

_True, but every animal has some sort of defense_. Artie motioned to Tobias' talons. _You have those and the ability to fly, cheetahs can run really fast, and humans have brains to figure out how to do all of it. I won't argue that we're better at it when it's clear we're not, but we can do it all._

_ So how do you plan to tell him? _Tobias asked.

_ I was thinking of — _

Artie paused when he heard the sound of stuff crashing to the floor.

"Did you hear something?" Tor stopped in his work and Artie saw he had a very detail copy of Tobias' talons.

"Yeah." Artie looked around. "You're here alone right?"

"Yes."

Artie produced a flashlight and handed it to Tor. "Here, let's go check it out."

Tor looked eager to get back to his work, but took the flashlight all the same. "It's probably a stray. Sometimes the janitor leaves the door open when he stops to smoke."

"Let's hope that's all it is."

Together, Artie and Tor came out from behind the curtain and walked down the stairs of stage. The lights were on, but so dim it hardly made a difference. Artie let Tor walked ahead with the flashlight as he removed his sunglasses so he could see better and cursed himself for leaving his quiver and armor back at the hotel with Jacob. He hadn't planned on running into Tor that night. He just wanted to see if the son of Hephaestus actually lived at the theater since the map had given them that address rather than a home address.

At least he still had his Kopis and the stone mallet Hephaestus had given for his son. At the moment the mallet was resting on his belt and his Kopis was ketp in place by leather jack against his chest.

"It was probably nothing." Tor said.

Artie sniffed the air. "Maybe."

Ruff!

Tor and Artie turned to see a dog the size of a car with glowing red eyes as it growled and showed teeth as long as daggers. It was large that a row of seats brushed its underbelly.

"_Dat. . . kan niet. . . zijn. . . echt._" Tor said his jaw practically on the floor.

"No sudden moves." Artie said quietly. "Hellhounds are faster than they look, especially this close."

"_Waar heb je het over_?" Tor kept his gaze on the dog who seemed to deciding on either eating Artie or Tor first. "Dogs can't grow that big."

"Normal dogs can't." Artie corrected. "Now don't look, but I'm going to hand you something."

"What?"

"A weapon." Artie said carefully. "I have one, but you might need one."

"_GEEF HET DAN AAN MIJ_!" Tor shouted.

Suddenly the dog pounce and Tor felt something push him to the ground, flashlight flying from his hand. As he fell, he saw the dog collide with the wall behind where he was standing. The dog shook it off and slowly stalked toward him, eyes glowing an evil red and snapping his teeth at him. Unable to stand, Tor began crawling back.

Then, Artie seemed to appear on top of the monster and he had a long slightly curved bright white sword. Faster than Tor thought possible, Artie turned the sword down and buried the blade into the monster's back to the hilt. The dog roared in agony and began to buck, Artie tossed something to Tor and he caught it.

Tor looked down and saw he was holding a mallet. It was barely a foot long and had several rawhide cords keeping a stone head securely fastened to the handle, but before his eyes it began to grow in size and weight. In the blink of an eye, Tor was holding a stone warhammer. The handle was leather wrapped bronze with a loop at the end and leather cords had become bronze bars. The head was a solid rectangular piece of polished white stone that was a foot long and six inches wide with bronze plates on each end.

"Use it!" Artie shouted while he gripped his sword as the monster bucked like bull at a rodeo. "Put the hammer down!"

When he played it back in mind days later, Tor still couldn't explain what made him do what he did. He stood and gripped the warhammer with both hands. Without knowing how he knew, but he pulled the handle farther out and he was holding a two handed warhammer. Then, with yell that his viking ancestors would have quelled at, he charged the monster and swung up.

The head collided with its lower jaw and Tor felt the bones and teeth crack and break. The hit made it stop bucking and Artie had just enought time to slide off the beast's back when Tor brought the hammer overhead and then brought down with enough force to flatten a diamond.

To his surprise, there was a lot less blood than he expected. The monster simply crumpled to gold dust.

"_Wat . . . was. . . dat. . . schepsel_?" Tor looked down at the hammer and it shrank back down to the little mallet he first saw it as. "_Hoe kwam het dat doen_?"

"Look, it's a lot to take in." Artie panted and picked up his sword and put on his sunglasses. "I'll explain, but first we need to do two things."

"What?"

"We need to get back to my hotel and pick up my brother." Artie laid a hand on Tor's shoulder. "Then we need to go to your house?"

"Why?" Tor asked.

"Because you're going to have questions that only your mother has the answers to." Artie smiled gently. "Questions about your father."


	7. Pépin

Everything was as it should be in his world thought Alexandre Rosseau.

He was sitting across from a gorgeous girl who was eyeing him with intention and smiling slyly. Her long hair shined like brightly polished copper and caught the light whenever she moved . Only the pearl diamond necklace and her ruby red earrings outshone it. Her earrings matched her tight slink red dress and lipstick with that same passionate shade of crimson.

_She must be serious. She wouldn't wear that much jewelry if she wasn't._ thought Alexandre. _Or maybe she is showing off her father's money._

It was entirely possible. Everyone knew that Léa Dubois was daughter of Robert Dubois, one of the richest men in France. It was also known that Robert, who only had his daughter after his wife had died, like to dote on her and she had but to ask for anything she wanted. She had asked, received, and crashed a limited edition hot pink Koenigsegg CCXR Trevita which her father had paid five million dollars in addition to another five for the party on a yacht off the coast of Marseille.

Alexandre did not come from that kind of royalty, but he wasn't exactly part of the everyday riffraff either. He came from a long line of French generals starting with great grandfather during World War Two. His great grandfather had passed while he was still a baby, but his grandfather had reached the rank of Général De Division or Division General. He had retired and his father had done the same, with some fatherly aid. Alexandre was expected to do the same in a couple of months. He wasn't worried. His father would no doubt pull string to keep him from actually seeing combat and he'd take his father's place in due time.

He could hear people whispering about him and he saw some leaning over out of the corner of his eye to get a good view. It wasn't everyday that the son of a Division General was seen dining at restaurant. It went double for a four star restaurant that was barely in Paris and almost in La Courneuve.

Paris was safe enough, no more than London or New York, but only as one avoided the dangerous sections at ungodly hours. The restaurant, Cytherea's, was technically in Paris, but close enough to the dangerous suburb La Courneuve. It was known and accepted that the suburb's runoff of criminals and thugs were starting to encroach into Paris. The restaurant was somewhat of a local legend as criminals often ate there, but they were careful never to make a fuss. Alexandre wasn't sure why. He had heard that one time a group had tried to rob the restaurant, but the criminals had already been dealt with by the time the police arrived and were sitting on the curb bleeding and unconscious.

He was about to ask the waiter who was delicately pouring wine for him and his date when he noticed he had a lit cigarette in his mouth. He wondered how this imbecile still had a job.

"You're famous." giggled Léa. "Everyone is looking at you."

_As they should be_. "No, you're wrong." He smiled sweetly, momentarily distracted from the waiter's cigarette. "They're all admiring you."

They shared a laugh and clinked glasses.

Alexandre took a sip of wine the waiter had just poured. "Hmm?" He took another sip. "_C'est magnifiqu_!" He held a hand to get the waiter's attention which was unnecessary since he hadn't left. "This flavor . . ." He sniffed the glass. "And, yes, this aroma. It is the unmistakable scent from the north. Bitter with a full body and just a tad sour." He looked down at the glass. "This wine must be the famous Château Roques Mauriac Bordeaux Rosé!"

The waiter set the bottle on the table rather forcefully and removed the cloth from around it

"Well, garçon?" asked Alexandre confidently. "Am I right?"

"_Nan_!" said the waiter cheerfully. "Far from it."

Alexandre's eyes went wide in shock and didn't even notice when the waiter grabbed his wrist tight.

"_Bon appétit_!" He placed a spoon in Alexandre's hand and closed it for him. "This dish is best when hot."

The waiter then turned and walked away, but paused. He didn't turn around completely, but spoke to Alexandre over his shoulder. "_Monsieur_, my name is Antonin Pépin. I am the sous chef." He then continued walking. "All of the waiters quit as of last week."

Alexandre turned his head when he heard Léa suppress a laugh. Then he heard some of the other patron laughing into their dinners and desserts. He just didn't understand what had happened. He had made it clear to serve that particular wine when he made the reservation that morning.

"Do you know a lot?" Léa asked.

He tasted the soup and bit back a growl. To add insult to injury, the soup was phenomenal and part him was excited about the main course.

"Excuse me?"

"About wine." Léa teased. "Do you know a lot?"

"Uh, yes." He forced a nonchalant chuckle. "But it seems my sense of taste is _cassé_."

Léa laughed quietly and sipped her wine.

Alexandre forced a smile and went back to his soup, doing his best to ignore the hushed laughter of the other patrons. He politely spoke and made jokes whenever Léa spoke to him, but he kept quiet for the most part. Never had he been so humiliated in his life and he racked his brain for idea how to get back at that waiter, each idea more impossible and ridiculous than the last. Then fate gave him a solution.

Or so he thought.

He was reaching for a soft dinner roll when he saw a small ant, hardly bigger than a flea, scurry past his foot. An idea popped into his head and he carefully tapped his foot on the insect. It was just pure luck that Léa's cellphone rang and she excused herself to the restroom to take it. He made sure no one was looking when he picked the bug from his shoe and drop it in the soup.

"_Excusez-moi_!" Léa said when she sat back down. "A girlfriend thought we were going to see a film tonight instead of tomorrow."

"That sounds nice." He remarked. "Maybe after dessert." He made a show of dipping his spoon into the soup and frowned when it was inches from his mouth. "_Est-ce _. . ." He slammed down his spoon with a flourish.

"Is something wrong?" She asked.

"_Oui, il ya_." He turned and saw the waiter was walking past a table. "Hey, _garçon_! Get over here!"

The waiter, Antonin Alexandre remembered, but forgot that Antonin had said he was the sous chef, stopped for a moment. Antonin rolled his eyes when he saw it was Alexandre who called to him like master to his dog. He looked around to see if he could find away to ignore him, but sighed when the whole restaurant froze and was staring at him and the loud patron who didn't know much about wine.

Alexandre scowled as Antonin slowly walked over, lighting another cigarette as he took his sweet time. It did, however, give Alexandre to get a good look at him.

He grounded his teeth._ Les bras m'en tombent_!

Antonin was probably the most handsome man Alexandre had seen in his life. Even famous actors and models would be jealous of his face.

Antonin was a slim, but not scrawny, long-legged young man. His hair was cut short, but it was long enough to cover his right eye when he brushed to the side. It seemed to be made spun from twenty-four karat gold and sunlight that matched his well groomed goatee and the trimmed stubble on his upper lip. His eyes weren't the same color, but they were each rich in color. His left eye was a vibrant shade of blue that would have made a sapphire green with envy into an emerald, which was probably what had happened to his right eye.

Alexandre then saw Antonin wasn't dressed as a typical waiter. It wasn't exactly a chef's jacket, but it wasn't a plain suit jacket either. It seemed to be a combination of two. Antonin wore a black, double-breasted suit with brightly polished brass buttons. It also had lapels, something a chef's jacket didn't have, which showed off the color of Antonin's deep orange shirt and a black tie that matched the suit perfectly.

"I believe I've already told you, Monsieur." said Antonin, not even trying to hide the irritation in his voice. "I'm not a waiter." He paused when he saw Léa and leaned smoothly on the table. "What a stunning beauty you are."

Alexandre's jaw dropped and was speechless.

"My sweet little calisson." Antonin smiled a dazzling smile revealing pristine white teeth out of toothpaste commercial and took Léa's hand who smiled right back, forgetting she was on a date with a division commander's son and did nothing when Antonin took her hand. "Would you care to join me elsewhere for a glass of wine?"

_That does it!_ Alexandre's fist pounded the table, rattling the glasses and silverware. "Hey!"

"Hmm?" Antonin barely turned to see Alexandre.

"Is bug soup on the menu today?" He demanded. "Or did you make this especially for me?"

"Bug soup?"

"_Qui_!" Alexandre pointed to the ant in the broth. "What's this bug doing there, garçon?" Alexandre hid a smile. _This will show him some manners._

"My apologies, _Monsieur_." smiled Antonin

_That's right._ Alexandre thought smugly. _That got your attention._

"I'm not certain, but it looks he's floating." said Antonin. "Then again, it looks like he is drowning. It's difficult to say for certain since I'm not an expert on bugs."

Léa stifled a laugh as did all the patron who stopped to watch the little show with dinner, and it seemed Alexandre was cast in the role of the fool. He had reached his limit when Léa laughed and went over the edge when the patrons join her. Antonin's mocking tone probably didn't help too much either.

"_NE VOUS OSEZ RIRE DE MOI_!" He shouted for everyone to hear.

If that didn't get thier attention, then it certainly did when he shot to his feet and flipped the table. Glasses shattered along with a still full bottle of wine on the floor. The plates clattered in pieces along with the silverware as the pristine white table cloth was stained with wine and soup. Everyone held their breath at what would happen next.

To everyone's surprise, Antonin looked down at the shattered remains of a bowl that lay in a puddle of brown broth. He knelt down and those closest saw that handsome face was shocked, like a friend had been gravely hurt in front of him.

"You could have eaten it if you had just taken the bug out. It would have been wonderful." Antonin said quietly. "It took three days of hard work to prepare that soup for you and you wasted it."

"Don't you understand you're biting off more than you can chew?!" Alexandre's foot slammed hard on the puddle, splashing some into the air. and ground his foot in it. "I'm the _patron_ here! Do you understand me?! I'm paying you!"

Léa suddenly clutch his arm and pleaded. "_Arrête_! Alexandre!"

He shoved her off and to the floor. "_Ferme-La_!" He then pointed a finger. "Stay out of this!"

"_Ton argent puisse assouvir votre faim_?" asked Antonin coolly.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm asking can your money satisfy your hunger?" Antonin looked up at the division commander's son with blue and green infernos in his eyes.

Although Alexandre himself didn't see it himself, he would later get full view of it on the internet from a patron's cellphone. He would see Antonin, still kneeling on his left knee, twist his hips sharply and pivot counterclockwise hard. Alexandre would realize that from the angle of video, Antonin fully extend and lock his left leg as he swung it up and the back of his heel collided with Alexandre jaw.

However at the moment, Alexandre only felt something powerful strike the right side of his face. It was so strong and sudden he stumbled and almost lost his balance. Alexandre tasted blood and felt his entire jaw throb like his heart jumped from his chest into his mouth. He wiped his mouth and saw blood staining his hand.

"D-d-did you just k-kick me?" Alexandre whispered in disbelief.

"As I told you." Antonin put his hands in his pockets. "I'm the sous chef. I'm not about to risk injuring my hands. Especially for a _morceau de merde_ like you!"

One would think after a powerful kick to the face Alexandre would have left with the precious dignity he had left, but he did not. Like any scared and untrained fighter, you'd think with two division commanders in the family he wouldn't be, Alexandre ran straight at him.

Everyone watched with bated breath as Antonin stood his ground and only lifted his right knee to his chest. When Alexandre was almost on him, Antonin brought down his leg and drove the sole of his heel into Alexandre's thigh. It wasn't anywhere near enough to break the bone his leg, but it did succeed in sending Alexandre off balance. With his hand still in his pockets, Antonin quickly brought his leg up to just slightly above Alexandre's waist before snapping his knee like a whip and his shoe flew into Alexandre's face again.

Alexandre stumbled and fell on all fours. He spat out some blood and a single tooth. Everyone was expecting Antonin to finish the division commander's son, but he just straightened his tie and went to Léa who just stared at the hand.

"_Je m'excuse_." Antonin said sweetly as helped the lady to her feet. "Allow me to bring you the finest chocolate soufflé in the entire city." Antonin inclined his head to Léa. "As my most sincere apology for such an unpleasant evening."

"_M-merci_." said Léa. "But I t-think I should just go home."

"I understand." Antonin inclined his head apologetically. "A sophisticated lady like you shouldn't — "

"_Cela devient vieux, Antonin_!" cried a deep voice.

The onlookers turned to see a uniformed cook. He looked like a typical middle aged man with a slight paunch and a thin mustache.

"What do you think you're doing to a patron?" He pointed to Alexandre who was still on the floor. "Are you blind or just plaint stupid?" He's Jean Rosseau's son! The Division Commander for the entire army?"

"I'm the sous chef, Clément!" Antonin sneered. "What makes you think you can speak to me like that?"

"A _cuisinier de merde _like you is calling me bad?!" growled Clément as he walked up to the seventeen year old sous chef. "Restaurants can't exist without customers. They're our lifeblood so we don't want to hurt them like you seem to keep doing!"

"He deserved it." Antonin flashed a murderous look at Alexandre. "He didn't treat the food or me with respect, and he insulted all of the cooks." He turned back to Clément. "So I simply taught him a lesson."

"Urgh, you're going to regret this." said Alexandre hoarsely and everyone looked down at the injured son of Jean Rosseau. "No restaurant should treat its patrons like this. I see this place shut down." He looked up at Antonin. "_Vous m'entendez_? I'll shut this place down. This restaurant it finished!"

"Then maybe I should finish you now." Antonin snarled.

"_Tu ne pouvais pas le laisser passer, pourriez-vous_?," Clément whistled and two more cooks emerged from the kitchen. "He's at it again."

The two cooks ran and grabbed Antonin's arms while Clément stood between Alexandre and Antonin who was putting up quite a fight to reach Alexandre who cowered into in ball when Antonin grabbed at him with three men holding him back,

"_Connards arrogants comme toi qui pense qu'ils sont dessus de tout le monde vraiment me pissent_!" Antonin shouted from behind Clément.

"You can't keep doing this every other day!" shouted one of the cooks desperately clinging to Antonin's left arm.

"Not such _béat cul_ now are you?" demanded the sous chef. "Are you?!"

"What's going on here?" said a loud voice.

Again, everyone turned to the kitchen to see an an elderly-looking, but still very fit, man. He was wearing a chef's uniform with a blue ascot, a white apron, and a very tall toque. He was blonde like Antonin, but his long mustache and thick beard were a sandy shade of yellow rather than Antonin's spun gold. Instead of long pants, the man wore long shorts which attracted stares to his prosthetic right leg.

"Are we all on a break and no one told me?" demanded the old man.

"Chef Pépin!" cried one of the cooks. "Your son is going crazy again!"

"Really?" Chef Pépin walked over acting as if it wasn't more of a hobble. "Antonin! Don't tell me you went on another rampage in here again, you idiot?"

Antonin paused for a moment. "Put a cork in it, old man!"

The cooks released their sous chef and Antonin seemed to have completely forgotten the cowered division commander's son hardly a meter from him.

"Oh, now you're ordering me around!" growled Chef Pépin. "Who do you think you're talking to?! Do you want to sink my restaurant to the bottom of the Seine River?!" He walked over, hobbled, and struck Antonin with the back of his hand. "You brat!"

"Heh." snickered Alexandre Rosseau.

"_Et toi_," Chef Pépin snarled as he delivered a hard kick with his prosthetic leg. "Get your _âne _out of my restaurant!"

It seemed that the third time was the charm. With two of Antonin's kicks already rattling what passed for a brain in Alexandre's head, Chef Pépin's hard third kick knocked the boy out cold. He sprawled out on the floor completely unaware that he landed at Léa's feet. After everything that happened, Léa drew herself up and left without a word. Antonin was about go after her, but everything was far from over.

"How can you deny the restaurant's _politique _that the customer is king?!" demanded Clément.

"_Roi_?" scoffed Antonin. "The only kingly patrons are the one who can stomach that slop you call food."

"_Ça suffit_!" barked Chef Pépin and point to each of them. "If you two want to fight, keep it in the kitchen! Do you hear me?!"

Antonin and Clément glared at each other, but seemed to calm down.

"_C'est mieux_." growled Chef Pépin and he pointed to the kitchen. "Back to work!" He watched his son and Clément stared daggers while they returned to the kitchen. He then motioned to the two other cooks and pointed the mess left by Alexandre and Antonin. "Clean this mess up!"

Chef Pépin saw he was the center of the entire resturant's attention and threw up his hand in a 'what can you do' gesture. "_Excusez l'agitation_." He clapped his hands together. "Please accept my most sincere apologies and do please stay for dessert with my compliments."

It seemed to please everyone enough and Chef Pépin hobbled back to kitchen, just having realized he sent Antonin and Clément into a room with razor sharp knives and pots of boiling liquids.

With all the commotion, no one seemed to have noticed the two teenage boys sitting at table in the corner. They seemed normal enough except that one had bright silver streaks in his long hair and wore sunglasses to cover his eyes. If that wasn't stange enough, a hawk snatched pieces of meat from his fingers while perched on his shoulder.

"What do you think that was?" Artie asked.

Tobias chirped.

"I know you don't speak french." Artie said. "Jacob?"

"Well, uh?" Jacob flipped through a french phrase book. "I think _cuisinier de merde _ means . . . on second thought, that's not important." More page flipping. "I think that old guy, Pépin they called him I think, just promised a free dessert." Jacob looked up at Artie. "That's all I got. You think that blond kid is the one?"

"You saw how good looking he was?" Artie shook his head in disbelief. "He also smells like one of her kids." Artie wrinkled his nose. "Like a musky sweet perfume."

"Are you sure?" Jacob asked. "I've never seen one of them fight like that."

"He's a savateur." Artie buttered a roll.

"A what?"

"He knows Savate." Artie explained. "Its kinda like french kung-fu. It involves a lot of kicking."

"How do you know that?"

"In Kiss of the Dragon, Jet Li had to fight a some police officers that knew savate." Artie rubbed the back of his head. "I learned the hard way Silena had the bright idea to mention it to Clarisse a couple of years ago too."

* * *

_**(LATER THAT NIGHT)**_

Antonin Pépin stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. He had just had a hot shower to wash the smell of food from his skin and hair. He ran a hand across his cheek and frowned. He opened the medicine cabinet and retrieved his straight razor along with bowl and brush. He carefully wetted the brush and quickly built up a fine lather in the small bowl that held a small piece of soap. He then quickly ran the razor up and down the leather strop that hung just to the left of the medicine cabinet to hone the edge. Years of doing the same to kitchen knives made it second nature.

Straight razors, or more aptly named cutthroat razors, had fallen out style decades before Antonin was born, but he found that they were perfect for precise trimming of his facial hair and keeping his hairline at the perfect level. Once he finished with his sideburns and trimming his goatee, he carefully groomed his eyebrows.

He seized a brush and blow dried his hair so it shone like gold and covered his right eye. After another quick glimpse in the mirror, probably his hundredth or so, he nodded approvingly. He delicately sprayed on some cologne around his neck and shoulders and deodorant to his underarms.

Antonin was buttoning up a dress shirt when he heard his father say from behind him. "You have more of your mother in you than you realize."

"What are you talking about now, old man?" Antonin teased.

"Your mother spent hours primping whenever we out dancing." Gilles Pépin leaned against the wall and smiled fondly. "I think she spent more time in front of a mirror than I did in physical therapy."

Antonin frowned and he paused for a second as he buttoned up his collar. Although his father often joked about it, Antonin still found it uncomfortable to talk about Gilles Pépin's missing leg. He walked to his room to finish getting dressed.

There had been a time when Gilles Pépin was a national savate champion three times over which was impressive for an orphan that came from the hard streets of Marseille. His kicks were so powerful and swift, he had earned the name Gauchissant Gilles, or Pink Gilles, because his white sparing boots would be pink with his opponent's blood at the end of every match.

Then it all came crashing down when a criminal botched a robbery and tried to drive a stolen car through a street cafe. The car jumped the curb and the front of it flew high threatening to crush a woman. Without thinking, Pépin dove and tackled the woman to safety. Unfortunately, it was not far enough and two tons of steel slammed down on his leg. The criminal was caught a few hours later, but the damage was done and the doctors had to amputate the leg that won countless trophies and fights.

Gauchissant Gilles had become Seul Gilles overnight.

However, it did not end there. The woman that Pépin had saved was guilt ridden and visited everyday. Pépin was pleasantly surprised by her bringing delicious meals each time and learned she was studying to be a cook. Pépin, with her coaxing and encouragement, breezed through physical therapy to become accustomed to his prosthetic leg and entered Le Cordon Bleu with her. Needlessly to say, they fell in love in the finial few months and Antonin was born hardly a year later. Although Pépin never told his son why or how, but she left soon after naming her son after the king of cooks and cook of kings, Antoine Carême.

Heartbroken, but still determined to do right by his son, Pépin opened a restaurant and named it after Antonin's mother, Cytherea. Being close to a dangerous suburb, Cytherea's staff had to be on par or tougher than anyone that walked in. It had gotten so bad as of late that people flocked to Cytherea's just to see the cooks fight any criminal stupid enough to start trouble. Unfortunatly, it also resulted in waiters hardly lasting longer than a month.

Antonin spent the next seventeen years, besides going to school, alternating between learning savate and the culinary arts from his father. He never had the taste for competitions like his father had, or fighting in general, but Pépin had put his plastic foot down and Antonin was a gold glove savateur, the highest rank, as well as one of the youngest sous chef in Paris.

"So what was the name of that club?" Pépin asked.

"Cypris." Antonin fastened a thin black tie around his neck. "From what I've read, anyone who is anyone goes there.."

"Read?" Pépin smiled wryly. "How long did that take you?"

"A few minutes." Antonin gave him a look. "My dyslexia doesn't make it impossible to read."

"Based on the amount of times I've seen you read, I was beginning to suspect different." Pépin stood aside and handed his son his keys. "Take care of yourself."

"Thanks, papa." Antonin smiled and hugged his father goodbye.

Cypris was jumping when Antonin entered.

It looked like any other nightclub in the city. It was dark with dim colored lighting and couches spread all over. He saw there was a stage for a band or DJ. The band was just six people. There were two on guitar and bass, single guy with a trumpet, while two more were on a keyboard and drums, but there seemed to be some idiot just butchering the song.

He was wondering why the owners would higher a band with such terrible singer when the song finished and he stepped down. Hardly a second later someone else, a girl in very cute mini skirt and crop top, took his place. Antonin figured it was some sort live karaoke night for the club. He would've preferred just a plain band or a DJ, but if karaoke was in style then he'd better get with the program.

Antonin was sipping a diet coke, he had perfect waistline to maintain, when a foreigner took the stage. He looked to a bit older than Antonin, maybe eighteen or nineteen. He had long chestnut brown hair tied back in ponytail and had sunglasses resting on his head. His jeans were off the rack of some generic department store just like his sky blue shirt. Antonin practically gagged when he saw the idiot was wearing combat boots. Either he had dressed himself in the dark or just didn't care, both did not sit well with Antonin.

He knew he was foreigner, most likely a tourist, when he spoke with a terrible accent and bad grammar. "Hello! I like to sing from movie. Hope you like!" He then motioned and said in English to teenager holding a guitar. "Hit me with some wonder!"

The guitarist, who had silver streaked hair tied back, nodded and said something to the rest of the band.

Antonin found himself tapping his foot at the funky beat laid down by the bassist and guitarist which the drummer quickly joined in with the rest of the band. Then the foreigner began to sing and Antonin was impressed how much like the original artist he sounded like.

_Very superstitious, writing's on the wall_

_Very superstitious, ladders bout' to fall_

_Thirteen month old baby broke the lookin' glass_

_Seven years of bad luck, the good things in your past_

_When you believe in things that you don't understand_

_Then you suffer_

_Superstition ain't the way_

He was so impressed that he did notice the gorgeous red head walked up to him. Her eyes were the most deepest shade of green which her perfect make up accented to the just the right level. Her dress was tight and slinky that showed her curves in a most alluring way.

"Hello." she purred.

"_Bonjour, jolie chose_." He smiled.

"_Parlez-vous anglais_?" she asked with a surprisingly accurate accent. "I'm new here."

"_Qui_," Antonin nodded. "Many tourists from America and England come to the restaurant."

"You own a restaurant?" She looked impressed.

"I am the sous chef." He explained. "One of the best in the city."

"And yet so young." She wriggled her eyebrows at him before extended a hand to him. "I am Janet."

"_Enchanté_." He took her hand and kissed it. "I am Antonin."

"A little old fashioned." Janet giggled. "Aren't we, Antonin?"

"_Chevalerie _is not dead in Paris, _ma chérie_." Antonin winked. "Would like to dance?" He held out his hand.

"Yes." She took his hand and began leading him out the back. "But not with everyone watching."

Before he knew it, Antonin was standing in a deserted alley. Normally, he would have wondered why a girl would drag him into an alley when they passed some perfectly empty closets, but he had trouble forming thoughts. Just when he thought of something that felt off, like Janet checking around to see no one was around and locking the door behind them, the nagging though just faded away. If he didn't know anybetter, Antonin would swear that something was affecting his mind and Janet was the cause of it.

"_Quoi. . . pourquoi. . . nous ici_?" Antonin held his head, his mind rebelling and screaming warnings.

"I should've guessed.' He heard Janet hiss. "Aphrodite's children are always a pain."

"Aphro-what?" Antonin shook his head and tried to focus. "What are you talking about?"

"Never mind that now, my sweet." She crooned gently and pulled him closer. "How about a kiss?"

Antonin finally looked up and it shocked him senseless.

The color had drained from her skin leaving her chalky pale. Her forest green eyes had become manic red and radiated danger. Her dress hadn't changed, but Antonin noticed her legs had. Her left leg was covered in fur and she had a cloven hoof instead of a foot. Her right leg was prosthetic like his father's, but here was made of what he guessed was a glowing bronze. Her teeth had also become long sharp fangs like a vampire.

In a moment of clarity, he pushed her away.

"_Tenir loin_!" he snapped before he felt his mind becoming clouded again. "Whatever you are, keep away!"

"Aw, what's the matter?" Janet giggled and began to approach. "You found me beautiful once."

Then a golden blur zipped between Antonin and Janet, They both looked to see the foreigner with amazing voice. The foreigner was now wearing a long brown trench coat and part of Antonin wanted to tell him only actor in old detective movies wore those. Antonin also saw he had strange golden metal gloves and clutched a boomerang that appeared to have a sharp edge.

"Honey, you got real ugly." said Jacob and tossed something to Antonin. "Here, pretty boy, you're gonna need this."

Antonin saw it was a gold ring with a ruby red rose in the center. He reached out with clumsy fingers. He almost dropped it, but against all odds it slipped on his finer with all his fumbling.

Suddenly a sword sprouted from the ring. The blade was very long and slender, hardly two centimeters wide. It seemed to made of the same kind of bronze as Janet's leg and glowed slightly in the dim lighting of the alley. The swept hilt covered his hand in a complex web of red gold and was decorated with red rubies and white diamonds.

"Hmm . . ." Janet sniffed the air and smiled. "Oooh, a son of Apollo."

"That's right." said the foreigner. "Name's Jacob. Now just — "

"Such a magnificent face." Janet said sweetly.

"What?" Jacob shook his head and was finding it hard to think. "Me?"

"Oh, yes." Janet purred and began walking toward Jacob. "Even better than your father."

"Uh, thanks." Jacob frowned, he was supposed to do something. "Really?"

"Why don't you put that down?" Janet beckoned him closer. "I'll make it worth your while."

Antonin wasn't sure what was happening, but that foreigner had saved his life and now he was in danger. He steadied himself and brought up the sword, pointed the end of rapier at Janet.

"_Arrêter là._" He said, his words sounding lush mush to his ears. "Back away slowly."

Janet turned, somehow becoming that same beautiful girl he had first seen, and smiled a dazzling smile. "Now, Antonin, is it right for such handsome gentleman like you to hold sword to a lady?" She pouted. "You're scaring me."

"I-I-I'm sorry." Antonin couldn't help saying.

"That's alright." She said sweetly. "Just put it down and I promise a night you won't soon forget." She turned back to Jacob. "Now, come a little closer."

"First you wanna kill him and now you kiss him." said a voice above them. "Blow!"

All three looked up to see the guitarist from the band. He was squatting on the edge of a fire escape and smiling, and unless Antonin was seeing things, he had a huge silver long bow in his hand.

"Who are you, half blood?" Janet hissed and sniffed. "You do not smell like the others."

"The name's Artie!" Artie hopped down from the fire escape, which was about ten feet from the ground, and came up smug. "Artie Gallezi."

"Gallezi!" Janet took a step back. "You mean you are . . ."

"That's right." Artie drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. "Hail to the king, baby."

"A king?" Janet said gently tossed her hair. "I haven't seen such mighty king in centuries."

Artie frowned and blinked at her words. She was using some kind of mind control or charmspeak on him. This empousai, Artie remembered what Chiron had said about them, was scared and desperate.

"Every king needs a queen." She took a step towards him nervously.

Artie let loose an arrow and it flew in Janet's shoulder. She screeched sharp enough to shatter glass and Antonin and Jacob seemed to come out of their daze. They both saw Janet stumbled back hissing curses in Ancient Greek.

"I will swallow your soul!" She spat at Artie as she pulled the arrow out her shoulder. "Do you hear me?! I will swallow — "

When Antonin played it back in his head, he'd see Artie sprint toward Janet and ram his shoulder into her with enough forced to fall, but then it just appeared that Artie disappeared and reappeared in front of Janet. Janet tried to stand, but Artie stomped hard on her head. Naturally Janet hissed and screeched in protest, but Artie placed a hard foot on her throat as he drew an arrow and aimed it down.

"Swallow this." he said in best Bruce Campbell impression and loosed the arrow.

Janet's screech faded as her body did into golden dust.

Artie collapsed his bow and walked to Antonin. "You alright?"

Antonin, too stunned to speak, nodded.

"Good. Now excuse me." He walked up to Jacob and splashed water from a canteen in his face. "Rise and shine, Romeo."

"Thanks." Jacob coughed and wiped his face. "Why could she put the whammy on you?"

"Chiron once told me it takes a very strong will for male heroes to deal with empousai." Artie shrugged. "Plus, charmspeak doesn't seem to work on me." Artie paused to think. "Actually, it just takes a bit more to put me under than a normal person if I go by the time Drew Tanaka tried it on me. Took everything for her just to make me say Twilight was a good movie."

"Why?"

"Don't know." Artie said honestly. "My mom and Aphrodite don't really get along. Maybe Artemis gave me sort of protection or something."

"Or you could just be stubborn." Jacob teased. "Mister I-don't-know-when-to-give-up."

"That," Artie smiled ruefully. "And Appolonia would roast me alive if I even remotely hinted something happened between me and another girl. That will snap anyone out an empousai's trance."

"An empousai?" Jacob looked worried. "That can't be — "

"_Ce qui dans le nom de Dieu qui se passe_?!" shouted Antonin, pointing his rapier between the two. "_Je veux des réponses. Aujourd'hui_!"

"Sorry about that." Artie said gently. "Do you speak English?"

"_Qui_!" Antonin nodded. "What was that?!" he pointed to the small hill of golden dust and then back to them. "What are you?!" He then realized he was holding a weapon. "Why am I holding a rapière?"

"Well, the rapier is a gift from your mother, Aphrodite. She's the greek goddess of love and beauty." Artie placed hand on Antonin's wrist and lowered the sword. "Trust me, you;re going to need it. As for the rest, we'll explain on the way to your house. You're father is going to have answers that we don't."

"My father?" Antonin asked, unsure.

"Lucky guy." Jacob remarked. "He must be something to catch her eye. You be surprised what some would do just for a kiss on the cheek from her."

* * *

_**A/N** _- _I'll be taking a break from this story to work on another so I give my brain a chance to recharge. As much fun as I'm having, its kinda hard coming up with new material. I promise I'll be back as soon as I can. Feel free to check out my other fics and tell me what you think._


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